The Party's Over... 'Cuz the Lights are Going Out...

No more incandescent light bulbs? What? As if that’s not bad enough, I heard this from Doug La Malfa’s Facebook page. This cave I’ve been living in really is insulated from the outside world.


For those three or four of you who might be as sheltered and clueless as I apparently am, here’s the deal:

In 2007, George W. Bush signed some sort of energy bill which, in part, begins phasing out incandescent light bulbs. Those are the non-funny-shaped ones. The ones we’ve taken for granted all our lives. The federally-mandated phase out does not start until 2012. However, California, in order to meet its own energy reduction mandates, is beginning the phase out of 100-watt bulbs effective January 1, 2011.

Now, 100-watt bulbs, I can see eliminating. It’s like a thousand splendid suns in someone’s living room. But on the heels of that, my beloved 60- and 75-watt luminaries will also become contraband. I’m getting to that age where time and gravity have collided with good looks and grace, causing a wrinkling Armageddon across my face. Make-up only does so much. I rely on other people’s poor vision and good lighting to compensate for the rest.

And I’m left to wonder, what the heck was so important in the past three years that I missed this impending train wreck?

What Would Jesus Buy? Or, Why I’m Kicking the Eight Pound Baby Jesus Out of the Manger

So, for the past several years, I’ve ranted about the commercialization of Christmas, and pleaded with friends and loved ones to put some magic back into this time of year. No amount of love from those I adore warrants a year’s worth of consumer debt, worry, stress, or consternation.

Instead of buying me a sweater, share a cup of tea with me. Instead of making me some trinket, spend time making memories with me that we both will be unable to erase from our legacies.

This year, the ‘back to basics’ epiphany has hit me this way:

Going broke buying gifts to prove you love me as much as you love the eight-pound baby Jesus, is like giddily leading Herrod to the Christ child. When we buy what we can barely afford, we are laying all our tribute at the feet of Target, WalMart, Macy’s, and Sears. If we’ve converted all our worth into commercial gifts, what do we really have left of value to share with one another, or with Christ?

This year, I challenge you to put aside your notions of tangible value on loved ones. Cast off your warm and fuzzy notion of the baby Jesus in the manger. Consider instead, bravely embracing the 23 year-old, 165 pound Jesus. Not much is written about him. I suspect that he was out and about, eating locusts, doing more of that 'I’m the Son of God' 40-day fasting plan, and generally being tempted in all manner of men. And at 23, he was likely bemoaning that day’s equivalent of walking the life of a man-child. He was finally able to go out and drink with his buddies, but not quite old enough to be getting a good driver insurance rate, due to his age.

This year has taught me more about faith than any other time in my life. Facing death makes one reconsider a lot about life in general, and personal circumstances in particular. I believe that in Christ’s young manhood, he had to be conflicted about his life path, knowing that he was headed for a road of rejection, condemnation, and betrayal, all in the name of the family biz. Still, we’re told, he counted it all joy. He was steadfast in his faith.  That's what I want for all of us in the coming year-- a steadfastness that helps us endure challenges with joy, and a gratitude that makes us drink in every moment of goodness that comes our way.

Instead of casting our lot with the cute and cuddly little bugger in the manger, let’s worship the guy who went through who-knows-what, for you-know-who (us). Let’s emulate the dude who was strong enough physically, and mature enough emotionally, to move forward through the tough times, knowing that doing so gave us all a foothold to joy unspeakable.

Let’s trust one another, hold each other up, love one another in the non-trinket form; in ways that better sustain us, better propel us, and better bond us to one another in the coming year.

Accounting for 2010

Let me tell you where this year has gone…


Divorce.

Salt Lake City.
The wintery star-filled skies of Wyoming.
Denver.
Albuquerque.
Winslow.
New Tattoo.
Matching piercings with Katy.

Rode the last Sunset Dinner train.
Golden Gate Bridge.
Drove up the coast.

Ate Well. Vintage. Rubicon. Tapas. Yama Sushi. Kobe. Mt. Fuji. Penny’s Diner. Tasty Mouse. Trader Joe. Waffle House. Black Eyed Pea. The Fort. Minerva’s. Taco Trucks. Quizno’s. Maria’s. Anette’s. Dad’s.  Rick's. P.F. Chang’s.

Said hard good-byes.
Said sweet hellos.

Made choices.
Packed.
Loaded.
Stored.
Hauled.
Moved to Denver.

Found life again.
In a basement.
And atop a 14,000 foot mountain.

Manitou Springs.
Broadmoor Hotel.
Colorado Springs.
The Continental Divide.
Rode my motorcycle through the Rockies.

Stayed in the town that inspired South Park.

Saw the Nuggets play a few times.
The Rockies with Scott.
Bon Jovi with Josh.

Walked the beach at Santa Cruz with a loved one.

Barack Obama.
Drove myself back to California to face some unknowns.

Aspen.
Hotchkiss.
Durango.
Four Corners.
The Navajo Nation Rodeo.
Colorado City.
Zion National Park.
Las Vegas.
Death Valley.
Tonopah.
Mina.
Reno.
Susanville.
Burney.
Redding.

Bare Naked Ladies with Maria

Lost 70 pounds.

Cheryl, the loaner mom.

Nevada.
Utah.
Wyoming.
Colorado.
New Mexico.
Arizona.
Mexico.
Oregon.
Illinois.
Texas.
Washington, DC

Migraine.
Vomit.
Diarrhea.
Cramps.
Nightmares.
Bleeding.
Pain.
Non-stop Pain.
Jumped out of a plane.

Found clothes that fit well, simply by changing the way I see myself.

Found peace through the harshest of circumstances.

John Mayer with Maria.

Loved.
Lost.
Fought.
Won.
Been sick,
Been well.

Gained.
Lived.
Died.
Wept.

Lost fear.
Lost hair.

Found courage, faith, and grace.

Learned yoga.
Danced with a man under a warm summer sky.
Laughed, like I haven’t since I was a kid.

Drugs.  Prescriptions.  Medical Care. 
Medical Bills.
Insurance.
Insurance Companies.

Found joy in the simplest of things—a flower. A phone call. A hug. A sunset. A day without a headache.

Laughter.

Met with dignitaries.
Awed in the presence of the poorest of folk.

Connected with positive energy.
Disconnected from the negative.

Found liberation through drawing of boundaries.

Been broken.
Been made whole.

Walked on the beach, while questioning my existence.
Been reminded in the most humbling of ways that I am valued, loved.

Written more in the past year than I have in ages, reminding me of where passions reside.
The environment.
The Holy Spirit.
Communities.
Big Foot.
Polygamy.
Health. Sickness. Death. Dying. Moving on.
Serenity.
Justice.
Peace.
Grants. Reports. Spreadsheets. Reconciliations.

Made new friends.
Found old friends.

Sat still.

Been humbled by the help of others.
Been inspired by those who heroically endured much.

Met lots of troopers.

Stretched.
Grew.
Been tested.
Slept.
Dreamed.
Hoped.
Loved.
Prayed.
Kicked Ass.

Possessed the courage and audacity to make it all so.

The Gift That Is Forgiveness

Forgiveness has never been that difficult of a thing for me when it comes to my end of the gig. I have long understood the power and force behind owning one’s mistakes and doing what one can to make things whole for those I have hurt or offended.


I have forgiven others for transgressions from large to small. Whether spiritually speaking or not, I simply believe that the love which inspired the relationship is greater than any snare that could tear at it. From my theological point of view, forgiveness is imperative to honoring the work of the Cross. To withhold forgiveness is to say that Christ’s sacrifice was not greater than the transgression one has suffered.

To me, it has never mattered whether a person even asks for that forgiveness. It’s just my job to make my own heart right in the matter and forgive. In fact, upon reflection, some of the greatest hurts I’ve endured in life have been forgiven that way. I forgive and move on, while nothing really gets restored in terms of the relationship, for lack of the other person's contribution. It’s certainly not ideal, but it’s far better than letting bitterness prevail.

Recently, I was confronted with a request from someone for the opportunity to ‘clear the air’. This was someone who had broken my heart at a point in life where I really could have benefitted from his friendship and support, if not the love we had shared. Quietly, over the span of some time, I had made peace with the situation, with his absence, and with the lack of closure over it all. I forgave, silently, for the sake of both our souls.

I had not expected to ever hear from him again. As happens at times, his life took some unfortunate turns that apparently made him re-evaluate choices he’s made in the course of his journey. It is with a fair amount of shame that I admit I was reluctant to have this proposed ‘air clearing’. I was skeptical. I had made peace with things from my own end, and didn’t see the point in rehashing old wounds.

Ultimately, propelled by compassion for his extraordinary circumstances, I capitulated. We met.

In all my life, I have never had someone apologize so sincerely. No mitigations, no “I’m sorry, but,” just an apology-- succinctly, sincerely, and with humility, expressing regret and remorse for pieces of the past that could have been lived better, or with a greater degree of kindness. It assuaged a lot of sleepless nights, a lot of sorrow, and a lot of questioning of self. It humbled me. It made a very broken piece of me whole.

It was a gift for which I don’t even know where to insert the proper thanks.

Why I Should Not Shop Unsupervised, Part II

MEN: Be warned, this blog post contains content that may not be suitable for you. Feel free to return to your Giants victory celebration. It may be safer for your tender souls.


Ladies, I know you’ll get what I’m saying here.

Yesterday, I shopped. Til I dropped. Y’all know by now I’m not much of a shopper. I put it off and put it off until I can’t put it off any more. I don’t like crowds. I don’t like spending money. I don’t really like all the dickering, though I’m pretty good at it. I am THE fashion disaster of all fashion disasters. Some say I am the reason there is an army of fashion police combing the streets. 

But despite all these dangers for myself and others, I could delay no longer. I need new technology for work. My shelf in the pantry is looking pretty bare. The seasons have changed, and I need warmer clothes.

The Geeks at Best Buy got me rolling seamlessly into a purchase of a new Toshiba Netbook. At the sake of sounding old and codgerly, I couldn’t help but recall how my first computer took two trips into the house—hulking monitor, behemoth CPU, keyboard, box of cords. And this didn’t even count that cutting-edge dot matrix printer that could actually do ‘alternate fonts’.

Now, for a third of what I paid back then for that set up, I have a computer with about 100 times the memory, 50 times the speed, internet capability, and that practically fits in the palm of my hand.

It, an external DVD drive and all the cords, fit in a case barely the size of a hardback novel. Crazy.

The weirdest shopping experience today was in Target. I have discovered a couple things with the changing of the weather. First, I am still living with my parents. While I didn’t have a hard date in mind, I apparently did not intend on being here beyond the shorts-and-tank-top phase of summer, since I left all my warmer attire in my storage unit. Second, upon going to said storage unit, I discovered I have lost A LOT of weight since I last wore cool weather clothes. Nothing fits.

In Target, out of sheer habit, fueled by the voice of Big Fatty Girl who somehow mistakenly thinks she’s still part of my existence, I was drawn directly to the boulder-sized bra section. As in times past, this was a chore that lacked any kind of joie de vivre whatsoever. I hastily grabbed several freak-show sized bras and went to try them on.

Now, one would think that a woman as smart a myself would have figured this one out on the first try. But no, FOUR BRAS LATER, it finally dawned on me: these bras are too big. Why this flummoxed me so, I don’t quite know. Dazed, confused, and dreading another round of finding things on racks, I dragged myself back out to the floor to find something that would fit. Turns out, I am now an owner of breasts that fit in bras in the ‘normal size’ section of the store. It was sort of like Christmas and the 4th of July all in one. There were so many! Colors, sizes, textures, holy cow. And match sets.

Match sets of underwear. I’ve seen them before. I’ve just never bought them. Form and function over frivolity has always been my notion in the undergarment department. And seriously, most of my life, I’ve been a big-to-huge girl. And a single parent. The “Dear Lord Let This Bra Hold The Girls Up All Day and Through the Kids' Christmas Pageant Tonight” kind of undergarments don’t generally come in feminine match sets.

This day, I looked at them. I touched them. I pondered. Ultimately, I decided to purchase a bra and panty set. For me. With no guilt. No regrets.

It was so fun, I grabbed a few more sets. And then found a manager to give me a discount. Yep. Not only do I own ‘normal,’ matching intimates, I own them at 15% off the retail price.

I feel like Wonder Woman. If you see me coming, you might want to look out. I may be matching. And in these moments when I like myself so well, there's just no telling what this woman might do!

Ghosts of Shingletown Past

I went to Wal-Mart yesterday. I’ll admit it. I do try to stay out of there—shop local, all that. However, one of the things I’ve learned this year is that Wal-Mart’s pharmacy is darn hard to beat on prescription drugs—especially some of the ridiculously expensive ones I’ve been burning through lately.

I promised myself I would just be in-and-out.

As I entered on the grocery side, I was already bracing myself for impact as I headed toward the pharmacy. Wal-Mart is one of those places that generally contains entirely too many people for me—especially the inconsiderate, the ignorant, and the otherwise not-so-bright. And I’ll admit, it’s a “me” thing. I just don’t have the patience for it.

So, as I plunged deeper into the store, I sought to find the straightest path to the pharmacy and get the heck out. I was stopped short in my tracks at the make-up aisle, as I saw a woman, with the same lovely frosted and permed hair, the same mischief in her eyes, and most shockingly, the same look as if she was about to fire off a ridiculously funny—and highly inappropriate—missive, as Carol Ann Dinning.

The way this woman looked brought to mind a day when I was 18 or so, and Carol Ann must have been about 37ish (going on 29, of course). Carol Ann was prattling on enthusiastically about how much weight she’d lost, how great her jeans looked, and what that meant in terms of ‘trouble’ for her husband that night. I really loved her spunk. It was a look from the time that will always be my frame of reference for Carol Ann—radiant, beautiful, smart, funny, and so full of life. It was as if she was the whole genesis of life itself; a force of nature, a woman with her own zip code—not for her physical size, but merely as the most apt way to contain all her moxy.

I deposited that nice memory and got back to the reality of getting to the pharmacy and getting on with the day. Seated in the pharmacy waiting area, I heard this laugh. No, actually, it was more a cackle. As I turned my head to see who was letting out such a distinctive noise, I thought, “that sounds just like Crazy Carol…”

At the moment that thought was registering with me, my eyes cast upon a woman, about five-foot even, with short, feathery, highlighted hair peeking out from under a fedora-like hat, arm clutched around a handbag that looked expertly hand-constructed, and cerulean blue eyes that bespoke a brand of waggery all their own. Had I not known that she had passed on a half-dozen years ago, I would most surely have thought that the woman before me was the same woman who used to call me “Bratinella”, the same woman who loved my dad at a time in his life when he was heartbroken, and fairly unlovable.

I don’t really know the significance of these déjà vu sightings. As has been said a lot lately, maybe it’s just a “mountain thing”. Maybe it’s just precious memories. Maybe it’s just life’s way of re-gifting to us treasures of the past.

Just Out and About...

I had to go to the doctor this morning. Not a big deal. For those of you who know me well, you’ll understand that running a fever was a far lesser concern than getting halfway to my destination and realizing that I didn’t have my Droid. The doctor hooked me up with a prescription for some antibiotics, and a plethora of encouragement about how everything’s still normal, and still on track. However, miracle worker that he is, he could do NOTHING about the fact that I went nearly two hours without taking or making phone calls, texting, facebooking, web surfing, stock checking, map routing, hot spotting, listening to my Booty Shaking music station, or taking random photos. How was it that I functioned before this nifty little device danced into my life? I can’t recall.


The component I was missing the most this morning was the camera. After the doctor’s visit, I stopped at Trader Joe’s. While there, I noticed Brussels sprouts. They were still on the stalk. For some reason in my mind, I had always thought they grew underground, or low-lying. I was intrigued by the revelation. Their stalks look similar to a broccoli stalk. It sort of made me think of giants and bean stalks, like maybe on the days bean stalks weren’t available, little ol’ Jack could have used the Brussels sprouts as a trellis to the terrible giant.

Curious as I was, I did not leave the store with any of the stalks. I have never acquired a taste for them, and have yet to find a way to prepare them that can overcome the issues I have with their taste and their texture. But I really wanted a picture. I was bummed I didn’t have the camera. I think I’ll try to go back in a couple days, since I need to return for the dried unsulfured, unsweetened Mangos they were out of as well.

On my way home, I had another “I wish I had my camera!” encounter. A dark-skinned gentleman, wearing a blazing orange, white, and black Giants jersey, rode through the intersection at Lake Boulevard and Market Street on a cruiser-type bicycle. A lavender bicycle, with purple and white streamers on the handlebars, and several shades of violet cutouts in the spokes, no less. The cacophony of color was dazzling. The grin on his face was priceless.

And my dear Droid was at home.

Waking the Dead

Everyone in my house is still laughing about this…


So, for whatever reason—meds, stress, pain—last night was not an entirely good night in the sleep realm. I slept some, but not that pure, recuperative kind. I got up this morning to try and start the day, and just couldn’t. Back to bed I went.

I slept for a few more hours, before I awoke to bickering. Doesn’t matter who or why, just that it wasn’t over anyone’s life or limb, and it was at a volume that I couldn’t sleep through.

Then, almost as suddenly as I’d been roused, there were a few brief moments of celebration as I realized that I had somehow become the only human in the house. I contemplated running a bath, reading a book, but ultimately, too weary for much else, went back to bed.

Just about the time I had drifted off, DamnDogs started barking and yapping, which sent BigDyingDog into mournful howls. I went and got the dogs all quieted down and crawled back into bed.

I slept for about half an hour before the doorbell rang. I tried to just ignore it. Anyone who’s anyone around here just walks in or uses the garage door. Because of their persistence, I finally got up and answered the beckoning.

Upon opening the door, I was face-to-face with what appeared to be mother and son proselytizers. Before I could even say hello, the young boy, probably about six or so, began backing away from the door, bug-eyed and screaming, “Mama you just told me there was no such thing as zombies!!!!!”

Still a bit bleary-eyed, I just watched as the confused woman attempted to stay engaged with me, and chase after her son, who was already scampering back down the driveway. Finally, after issuing a hasty good-bye, she ran after the terrified young boy. Shrugging, I closed the door and headed for the bathroom.

As I looked in the mirror, I began to laugh as I realized the source of the young boy’s terror. I had no scarf on, and my head was sporting a strange array of small patches of hair. There was a bruise near my eye that I acquired some time in the night. My eyes were so bloodshot, there was barely any white visible. Small dried streams of blood framed my face from where my ears had apparently bled while I was asleep.

At that moment, my brother stuck his head in the door and said, “Who was that running down the street?”

As I explained the situation to him, he put his arm around me and spoke to me through our reflections in the mirror, “I’m not gonna lie, if I didn’t know you, looking like this, you’d scare the Jesus out of me, too!”

Damn, I Hope This Works...

This has been a stressful week. Stress, thankfully, has become something of a stranger that I have not allowed to darken my doorstep in many, many months.
The last time I consciously felt stressed out was February 10th of this year. That was the day that I left Redding for Denver, via California’s central valley. I had my friend Michael helping me with all the moving logistics, and the driving. With a few nice good-bye gatherings behind me, I was left to deal with a couple uncomfortable and awkward good-byes and severances. I went to my old house to pick up the last of my belongings, closing the door for good on my failed marriage. Painful and unnecessary were some of the parting shots.

My son, who was at the time consumed with a ton of adolescent anger, angst, and pure rage, pushed every guilt button I had over my decision to leave the state. On many fronts, I felt like I was letting others down, disappointing people I love, including myself.

Michael, in his instinctual way, reminded me of how each of those things was a lie or misperception that I had the choice to discard or glom onto. By the time we got to Denver, my entire countenance had changed.  Denver gave me the much-needed space to heal and grow and redefine myself in a way that the permutations of too much stress and pressure in life had not allowed, ever.

It's not exactly that I haven’t encountered stress since then, it is just a matter of responding to it differently, perhaps.  Even those around me have said it's eerie the calm I've had through most all of this year.  For me, it's been a wonderful transformation.  I strive to manage conflict, stress, and the unexpected with more reason, less reaction; with more authority, less indecision.  I am happier, stronger, and more resilient for the change.

This week I was confronted with more financial stressors. This thing inside me continues to empty bank accounts and drain resources. I resent the implication that this thing could lose the battle inside me, but win through the thorough annihilation of other aspects of my existence. I continue to resist that notion by taking on more work to pay for more fees, services, and medical supplies. The work drains me. It’s a vicious cycle, but I refuse to let this thing beat me over a few measly bucks. 

The greatest stressor this week was on the medical front itself. On Monday, my doctor informed me that he feels he cannot in good conscience continue with my current treatment, as the results are not as he expected. I am still progressing, but not as well as he thinks is necessary to justify the collateral damage which is occurring in this battle. We debated for almost an hour about his preferred alternative (surgery), and mine (continue with drugs). I called the doctor who diagnosed me in Denver and asked his opinion. He requested my latest rounds of tests and scans, and we talked yesterday. He agrees with me that my current treatment, with a possible tweak in medications, could continue to get the job done.

Agonizing, has been the thought, prayer, reflection, and contemplation, over what to do next. I have worked judiciously to separate my fear of the surgery from the logical aspects of each course of treatment. Even in doing so, I cannot find a place of peace in the decision to have that operation.

I’ve pretty much always been a pleaser by nature. I don’t want people upset with me. I don’t want to disappoint others. It is an extraordinarily difficult conclusion to reach, knowing that in order to follow the path of peace, I am going to have to be contrary to the medical professional who has been managing my care. I spent a good portion of yesterday and this morning investigating and interviewing new doctors/practices all over northern California in search of someone who shares my vision of how to conquer this thing. Thankfully, I found the medical care I want to pursue close by. I am extraordinarily thankful for the team and staff of people who have gotten me to this point. I am relieved that my current doctor was so compassionate and caring as I explained my decision to him. He hugged me good-bye, wished me well, and offered whatever transitional assistance would be helpful in my case.

I go tomorrow to my new providers, cloaked in peace. Before I went and said my good-byes with the other doctor, I was nervous, stressed out even, at the thought of making this change. It felt like a bit of a free fall. After saying good-bye, I was filled with peace. I know what I am doing is right. I cannot speak for certain as to the outcomes of the decision. I still pray for healing, and continued wisdom to make the choices consistent with that. But what I do know is that this is the right course for me, with a peace that passes all understanding.

Patience is a Virtue

Dear Lord, thank you for all the patience you bestowed upon me today. These are the things I did not say, when I had the chance:


To the lady at Trader Joe’s who looked at me, then in my cart, and spying a chocolate bar, said: “Dear, do you really think you should be eating that in your condition?”

I wanted to say, “Well, it’s for my dad, for all the amazing stuff he does, but even if I ate it, I’m sure that it wouldn’t do me near so much harm, even in my current condition, as that case of Two Buck Chuck and that bag of chips is gonna do to you…”

Instead, I just smiled.

To the man in Hayfork who said, “Don’t you think your kind have done enough damage to our country?” I inquired what he meant by that remark, and he indicated that because I had a scarf on my head, I must be a “damned Muslim terrorist.”

I wanted to say, “damned ignorant fools like you have done a lot of harm, too, and no one’s shooting their mouth off at you now, are they?”

Instead, I touched his shoulder and told him I’d be praying for him—to Jesus—and maybe to the God of Mohammed, just for kicks, and to hedge his bets.

To the woman whom I encountered in the mall who used to be my friend until she accepted advances from 'him':

I wanted to say, “Your hugs and concern are awkward for me. Admitting to me that going out with him while we were still married might have been a little precocious --and more succinctly, hurtful to me-- would be a lot better way to clear the air. Not that I expect it. I’m just sayin’…”

Instead, I smiled and then ran off to the restroom to hurl. Maybe I didn't call this one right.

To the sweet man who helped me get bags loaded into my car and told me that hilarious off-color joke:

I wanted to say, “I love you…” but I doubt he’d have understood the context.

Instead, I laughed like a crazy woman. Felt good.

To the mail man who delivered lots of scrills today. I wanted to say, “I love YOU…” but the mail came while I was away.

Instead, I will leave him something sweet to eat tomorrow.

Lord, I'm hoping you don't test me quite so much tomorrow.  :-)

Love,

Susanne

Mr. Whiskers Meets Jesus

When I was 20, I was married and living out on a logging job near Paynes Creek. One day, I had driven the 15 or so miles down a series of logging spurs to the store and post office. As I was loading up groceries into the back of my pick-up, a man came over and offered to help me load. I watched him as we hiked grocery sacks over the side of the truck bed, noticing that he was a rather scruffy sort, especially for someone so young. He couldn’t have been much older than I was then, and yet, he had this scruffy beard and long, thick, unruly hair. In my head, I called him Mr. Whiskers.

For the rest of that summer and fall, I’d see Mr. Whiskers nearly every time I drove through Paynes Creek, whether going to the store, or heading over to Redding. Sometimes, he was just loitering around the store, sometimes searching for treasures along the highway, sometimes walking his equally scruffy dog, Bandit.

That year, we moved from the job at Paynes Creek and spent time in Burney and Shingletown, before eventually pulling our trailer to Susanville so my husband could go to work for his uncle.

About four years after I’d met Mr. Whiskers, I encountered him again in Susanville, at the newly-minted Wal-Mart. By that time, I had a baby under each arm. Mr. Whiskers had lost his teeth. His hair was matted, his face marked with sores. He was succumbing to the effects of methamphetamine. He smiled at me, and touched Katie’s cheek as my eyes filled with tears. I was sad to see him in such a condition, and was at a loss as to what to do to help him, as he walked away. I called him Mr. Whiskers in my heart.

Off and on, I saw Mr. Whiskers from time to time over the years. It was a curious thing the way our paths would cross. About ten years ago, I ran into him in south Redding, on his way to an AA meeting. He was cleaned up, with short hair and nothing but a smile across his clean-shaven face. Though he was definitely healthier than I’d ever seen him look, there was something haunting about the look in his eyes. He shared with me, “a lot of bad living has come home to roost, I’m afraid.”

He had AIDS. Contracted as a consequence of years of IV drug use and sharing needles, Mr. Whiskers was living on borrowed time.

Over the past decade, Mr. Whiskers and I would see each other from time to time, share a cup of coffee, a few stolen moments in the market, or the occasional lunchtime visit. He responded well to drug therapy for several years. The past few years, he began to decline.

Over the weekend, Mr. Whiskers had been on my mind, and in my dreams, telling me that he was ready to go to Jesus. I called him on Monday, just to see how he was doing. His mother answered the phone and said he was weak, and not doing so well. She welcomed my offer to stop by the following day.

On my way home from Weaverville, I stopped in to see Mr. Whiskers. He looked thin, weak, and tired, but happy to see me. He gingerly sat up in his bed and visited with me for almost an hour and a half. At one point, he told me that he was ready to go ‘home to the Big Mac Daddy’. “I have peace about the timing,” he confided. Mr. Whiskers indicated that he’d said most all the good-byes he could stand, and that he was ready to go be in the heavens.

As I readied to leave, Mr. Whiskers put out his arms, and I embraced him, shocked by how small his frame had become, and awed by how tightly he clung to me. He told me that he couldn’t see the sense in saying good-bye to the likes of me, because he was certain that he’d be seeing me later, in a much better place.

Mr. Whiskers died this morning, in the arms of his devoted mother. She said that it was a peaceful passing. Now, I call him Mr. Whiskers in my spirit.

The Random, the Funny, the Cool...

Just some random, funny, cool things from this week…


Pandora. Love it. My Steve Miller radio channel is coming along nicely.

For a few brief moments this week, I felt like I was sixteen again. I was sharing some information with a gentleman in a work setting, and he moved in for a closer look at what I was showing him. There was that look, those gorgeous soft eyes, that smile, that electricity, and then it was all about the work. Frosting on the cake was getting to share the moment with a good friend who demonstrably understood. 

My daughter Katy had supper with us the other night. It was one of those sort of ‘homecomings’ where she looked markedly different. Grown. Breathtakingly beautiful.  I hadn’t seen her in a week or so. She now lives on her own. Under her own steam. I’m so proud of her. That such a smart, beautiful, dedicated young woman calls me “Mom” is a blessing beyond belief.

I’m still grappling for an appropriate way to fully share this amazing story, but because so many of you have been asking, here is a snippet from ‘the letter’ I picked up at the doctor’s office:

“My wife died the day she found out she had cancer. It was almost three more years before she stopped breathing and we buried her. I would have given anything for her to have even a little of your grit and moxy…It gives me inexplicable hope to see you fighting the same fight with a future in front of you. Helping you in your fight helps me feel a little less grief in my own losses…”

QUOTES

Work:

“I’m not running again. I’m just a free range supervisor…” name withheld (til he’s out of office!)

“We’ll be admin-kabobs. What do you want to be marinated in?” name conveniently forgotten

“We sure could use Susanne over here in Plumas County,” old colleague

Home:

“I’m in one piece today, but who knows what tomorrow holds?” Jesse

Life:

Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is not putting it in the fruit salad.

Living or Dying: There is a Difference

Living has crippled me. Whether it’s been circumstances along the path of life, my own mistakes, random misfortune, fear, ignorance, or physical malady, a good many things have gotten in my way of living life, let alone an abundant one.

It wasn’t until this week, when I honestly started giving frank, analytical consideration to dying, that I discovered how little I’ve been living. Don’t get me wrong-- my life has been rich in a multitude of ways. I have the two greatest kids on the planet, I have indescribably wonderful friends, and I’ve been afforded a life full of experiences that leave me indebted for their inestimable value.

I do not fear death. When I was young, I think I was rather anesthetized to it. I saw a few dead and near-dead people when I was very young, growing up in an urban area. By the time I was 14, my grandparents and mother we all deceased. Death was a fact of life.

When I got older, I came to know God, and grew in the belief of a heavenly afterlife with a joy far greater than what we live here on earth. Death is just the final transition in a life that’s been filled with them.

As I have been working with my medical team over the past week to decide how to proceed from here, I have had to face some harsh medical opinions. The options I want to pursue are, in my doctor’s estimation, going to lead to death more imminently than the ones he recommends. I, with just my fair (yet unprofessional) amount of intelligence and my “gut” instinct, believe the outcomes will be just the opposite.

I called my old doctor in Denver, and he agrees with me. The cynic in me tells me that it wouldn’t have taken many more calls to find someone to say what I wanted to hear, had the call to Denver not panned out. Everyone has an opinion for sale these days.

I drained every dime of the money I’ve made in the past two months on the series of consultations that ensued from that one phone call. Insurance companies, apparently, aren’t big on expensive speculation when it comes to managing my health care needs.

I’m quickly learning that whether this is a path to better living, or a path to quicker dying, the trip ain’t cheap.

Friday, while weighing all the pros and cons with my local doctor, I went ahead and asked him to show me the costs associated with each of the options we perused. I figured that the moment I was absorbing the shocking news of another round of not-completely-successful treatment, I may as well deal with the sticker shock of what lies as well.

It’s all expensive. Surgery. Chemo. Radiation. More meds. Even doing nothing will inevitably be expensive as I just wait to literally fall apart. Over and above what the insurance will pay, I am looking at another $1900-$15,500 out of my own pocket, depending on the treatment I choose.

I have been thinking, talking, seeking advice, reading, writing, praying, praying, praying, and waiting for that guidance to come. In considering things like, ‘would it be better to live or die?, I have realized that living has been a fearful, subsistence kind of thing for me in a lot of ways.

I am afraid of disappointing others.
I am afraid of being hurt.
I am afraid of hurting others.
I am afraid of failing.
I am afraid of trying.
I am afraid of succeeding.
I am afraid to take authority of those things that are inherently mine.

Good Lord, could I be any more of a mess?

Friday night, I awoke, scribbled some things on the pad on my nightstand and trundled back off into a troubled sleep. In the morning, I read the notes I’d written: “$9,728” and “Know the difference between living life and a life lived.”

I’m still meditating about the latter scrawl. The former, however, became much clearer today. I’ve been praying about that number all weekend, asking God to bless it, to let it be a number of blessing to me and to others; to let it be a harbinger of comfort and peace.

This morning, I spent a good deal of time getting all the logistics in place to do another 30 days of drug treatment. In between a litany of work calls and emails, I was getting bombarded by calls and texts from the doctor’s office.

At noon, I made arrangements to personally go into debt for $9,200 to cover additional treatment. That was a difficult thing to do, as I am adamant about trying to stay debt free through this situation—so much so, that I requested that the loan not be formalized until this Friday, so that I could try and settle the total unrest I had about my decision.

At 5:30, I was really ready to turn the phone off on everyone. Because I have a busy day tomorrow, I decided it would be more efficient to take the one last call from the doctor’s office rather than have to return the call in the morning.

I answered the phone and was greeted by the billing manager at the doctor’s office. I began explaining to her that I would have the money she must surely be requesting by Friday. She listened patiently as I rambled on.

When I stopped, she chuckled and said, “You have to be one of the most operationally savvy people I’ve dealt with,” so impressed was she by her perception that I’ve been handling the long list of medical to-do’s efficiently. Then, she told me that I needn’t make payment arrangements, but only stop by to pick up a letter.

I stopped for a second as I thought about that, and then I asked her, “Do you realize that I engaged services for the next 30 days?”

She laughed again and said, “Yes, and someone has made a payment today.”

She asked me how I would like to handle the $272 credit that I currently have on account. I asked her how much had been paid toward my account, because I couldn’t make sense of the $272. The office manager told me that $10,000 had been paid on my account. I did the math. Between the $9200 for new services, and the $528 in miscellaneous charges that had accrued, my bill was $9728.

I told her to hang on to the change… I’m sure it’ll get spent before it’s all over.

And once again, I am left here speechless, feeling too many things to even wrap my own brain around. Someone, something, continues to speak life into my circumstances in ways that are incomprehensible to me.

Dear Amazing Person Out There: I can’t wait until tomorrow when I can pick up your letter. In the meantime, please know that I am going to do everything in my power to bring dividends to your investment, and to live life in a way which might somehow make my gratitude seem like it could be enough.  In the meantime, know that I am praying for you, and for God to show you a hundred-fold what you've helped show me.

Because So Many Have Asked...

My Thoughts On Skydiving:

Better than sex.  Way better.

The next guy who entertains the notion of some 'sweet time' with me is likely to hear:

"Hmmm... with you?  Well, here's the thing:  You're gonna have to show me that you have an AMAZING package, and that you're BRILLIANT at performing that thang, because for $100 and a whole lot less headache I can strap myself to a gorgeous man and fall out of the sky.  And no one's been able to get me naked and replicate THAT feeling!"

And that's all I have to say about that.

Amen.

Living in the Land of Five-Foot Giants

Challenges in life come in a variety of shapes and sizes. We’ve all known them, battled them, been laid flat by them, and triumphed over them. Adversity is the tool that refines and defines our character. It builds for us the perseverance, the tolerance, and empathy to enlarge our tents and continue being a greater vessel for ourselves and others.

One day last week, I was on the phone, discussing a project obstacle with a client. We’ve been working on this single project for weeks now, and we keep running into the same stumbling block—a five-foot tall woman, a flaming red-head, with a temperament to match. We have worked patiently, diligently, and with as much objectivity as we can muster to address this woman’s concerns about the defined course of action and the outcomes on the project. Every permit, funding source, authorization, and minor go-ahead has been obtained. Hers is the only voice of dissention on an otherwise fruitful project.

During the length of the phone call, the client and I developed our final plans for obtaining this woman’s agreement on the last details of the project. Basically, we decided that we are going manage the situation one issue at a time, and move on. In looking at the project from some different perspectives, we discovered a political equation that we believe is going to compel this woman to cooperate with us. Her dissention was, upon further evaluation, only a problem if we continued to look at the project from the same angle we always had.

As the client said his final good-byes, he commented, “Great job taking down this giant, Susanne.” We both laughed as we hung up.

Upon checking my phone, I discovered the grossest of dark ironies; a missed call from the doctor’s office, informing me of more test results, and a request that I come in for a consultation. During the very span of time that I was on the phone slaying one five-foot giant, another was rearing itself to further engage in battle.

I was pleased to learn that the current medication has been successful in eliminating most of the growths. The problem, as the doctor explained it to me, resides in a five-foot stretch of area that bridges both the small and large intestine, where the tumors continue to resist treatment.

The doctor and I are at odds over next steps. He is suggesting surgery, and I am resisting. I want to try one more round of a different medication. That five-foot giant inside me reminds me of an intestinal problem my mother had when she was in her 30’s. She wound up losing a portion of her intestinal tract, and things were just never quite right afterward. We never really knew the cause of her problem, but I had always assumed that it was due to a lot of hard living—drugs, alcohol, and inadequate medical care. Now I wonder.

Last night, I had the family chat with my folks about where I’m at and what I’m wanting to do with regard to my condition. I am fortunate to have family who, when it comes right down to it, support me when I need them. We drive each other bat-crackers crazy most of the time, but when things are on the line, everyone manages to drop the dysfunction for a minute and pull together the right way.

The strangest most unexpected thing happened as my dad, step-mom, and I were talking about my condition, options, and how I should manage the five-foot giant in my intestines. While trying to compare my situation with the mystery ailment of my mother’s decades before, some of the old frustrations of her suicide surfaced. From a purely strategic perspective, not having more information from her, even anecdotally, leaves me at something of a deficit in choosing a path to wellness.

Pretty much, the prevailing emotion for me when it comes to my mother is ambivalence. I try not to think about how much she’s missed of my life in the past 27 years—high school, marriage, career successes, my children--and their entire young lives’ worth of living so far. Lately, it’s leaned more toward anger and some quiet resignation. I could really use a mom right now. I am thankful for my step-mom and how much she has taken over that role over the years, but sometimes, it’s just not the same. We love what we know, even when it’s just a memory.

Part of my ambivalence for my mother comes from having long lived under her shadow. She was beautiful in every sense of the word. She had this charisma about her, that even though she was sort of just average in looks, everyone knew when she entered a room. Petite, at just under five feet, she had a svelte figure that no amount of diet and exercise will ever reveal to me. I’m bigger boned and fuller figured, much more plain in appearance. For all the talents she possessed—poetry, sewing, art—my skills and abilities always seemed to pale, in part because the things at which I excel seem to be less tangible than the gorgeous afghans she would crochet, or the amazing meals she would cook.

She had so many gifts, and so much to offer, and in her mental suffering, she chose to throw it all away. Others in my family have dealt with that loss by idolizing my mother posthumously to extraordinary heights. Even in her death, I am still compared to her, as if all that I am was her achievement alone. She is another five-foot giant I’ve battled my entire life.

As my step-mom was talking about her, she mentioned casually, as if I knew, “…it’s why your dad and I still keep some of her ashes on the shelf…”

I had no idea. In 1983, when we cremated my mom, we put most of her ashes under a fruit tree, as she had long requested. After that, I recall vaguely one of our cats spilling some of the ashes that had been placed in a vase in our home. I guess I just really never knew what happened to the rest.

I looked at Debbie and said, “What? You have her ashes?” My step-mom looked stunned, realizing that this was information that I did not previously possess.

“Can I see them?” I asked, through tears that I am still at a loss to understand.

Debbie led me into the dining room and pointed to a cobalt blue vase sitting about six feet up the wall on a trinket shelf. I gently removed the vase from the shelf, veritably staring through the ceramic in my hands.

Sobbing, I took the cork out of the vase and poured some of the remains into the palm of my hand. These small flecks of human ash are all that remain of my mother, aside from some memories that seem to have really morphed out of proportion.

In that moment, I realized that one more five-foot giant had just been deflated. I carefully poured my mom’s remains back into their container, gratefully laughing with my dad as he said, “Yep, that’s my Jeannie in a bottle!” Gawd, my family is weird, but I love them.

I walked away from that encounter realizing that I need to find a better perspective in which to manage my mother’s memory. Infinitely doable, I think. Somehow, holding a handful of her remains really put into focus how askew my own self perception has been over the years in light of the experience that was and is my mother.

With all the slaying of ‘giants’ this week, I have also found some reserves and the additional resolve I need to keep fighting this five-foot giant in my belly. The past few weeks have been hard, and I’ll be honest, the news that I’m not done yet was a real blow. The physical part of this is getting hard. The mental part has been a real challenge, too. I have spent a lot of time lost in thought and in fervent prayer over what to do from here.

What I’ve learned this week is that it is yet one more problem that I need to look at from a different perspective, noting that its relative size is much more diminutive than that which my perspective has lent it. This thing inside me is still on the track for eviction.

I am bigger than any five-foot giant that is put before me.

Sometimes, I Just Wonder...

I have been grieved, saddened, and even embarrassed lately by things I’ve seen and heard from fellow Americans. 


For instance, telling Muslims not to build a mosque near Ground Zero. Aligning all of the Muslim faith with terrorism, is like branding all Christians as bad because of an abortion bombing, or the acts of Timothy McVeigh and his bombing of the federal building in Oklahoma City. Every religion, political leaning, and social agenda has its fringe following. The Bible (which I endeavor to use as my moral compass), speaks about judging things by the fruit they produce. It’s hard for me to argue that the mosque—which sports a community center as well as other cultural magnets—and it’s historically peaceful worshippers have the same agenda as the terrorists who slammed planes into national monuments.

It shames me to see such ignorance and intolerance. While some will argue free speech and the first amendment, I find it difficult to rationalize the bashing people of a different faith. I can’t help but think doing so is the polar antithesis to what this nation was founded upon.

Burning the Quran. I can only wonder, at some point in eternity when we are all judged for things we have done or not done, how are some folks going to feel when they learn that much of what is in the Quran—live well, be kind to others, love God, etc.—is mirrored in the Bible and other Judeo-Christian literature?  I have thought often of the Apostle Paul, a Pharisee-turned-devotee-to-Christ, and his writings where he harkens to the early followers of the Christian church to look to the things within us that speak to Christ, and not the outward appearances, differences in languages, etc. I believe even Christ himself would have broken bread among the Muslims, choosing to reach them in love, not in hate or violence.

This is the one that really got to me today. A license plate frame that said, “Question the Holocaust.” Seriously? As if the genocide of 6 million Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals, and others deemed socially undesirable didn’t happen?

It’s not that I think folks with these sorts of opinions should be censored. I just wish they had better personal filters. I remember a co-worker once getting a Chinese fortune with her lunch that said, “Not all things must be voiced.”

I sincerely believe that to be a wise word in our day and time.  If we want to see change in our nation and among our people, we need to consider whether our thoughts or our words are edifying, and whether they profit us, our neighbors, our communities, and our nation.  Sometimes I cringe at people who errantly throw around "God Bless America," as if our own patriotism is based merely on our ability to get a personal god to shine kindly upon us. 

Isn't it time that America blessed God, no matter whose you choose to believe?  Shouldn't we speak kindness to one another?  Tolerance?  In a manner that builds us up as a nation and as a people, as opposed to tearing us down?

"And then HE said..."

I should be reading through the Gemmill Thin Project Draft Supplemental Environmental Impact Statement right now. At least some of the reasons why I can’t quite get excited about diving into that should be fairly obvious. The piper will be paid in full tonight, I suppose.


Less apparent motives include a mind that wanders to the conversation I had this morning with a friend, and the conversation I’m trying not to overhear in a coffee shop right now. This morning’s conversation was about my friend’s inability to get his former girlfriend to accept closure to their relationship. Painful stuff for all involved. The current conversation I’m trying to ignore (but failing, due to the volume and exuberance of the speaker) is about how the cheating boy continues to do her wrong.

Big, fat sigh. Why can’t people be nicer, kinder, more honest with one another? Why can’t motives and agendas just give way to two human beings pleasantly spending time with one another for nothing more than the enjoyment of each other’s company? A good conversation, a shared interest, an evening of fun companionship, these things seem to be something of a lost art.

Perhaps I am naïve in thinking that things could be so simple. Lord knows I’m not the most successful person when it comes to relationships. It makes me grateful for this place in life I am now, absolved of even being able to take the risk.

Yet Another Reason I Should Not Shop Unsupervised...

I am not a shopper. I don’t like to shop. For whatever reason, I just never inherited that gene that seems to be somewhat inherent in the female half of our species. And when I say I don’t like to shop, I mean, AT ALL. Not clothes, cars, furniture, food… nothing.

Today, resigned by the need of a few household items and some personal essentials, I braved a trip to Shopko, chosen for no other reason than it’s proximity to my parents’ house, and the fact that I can get there by traversing but a single traffic light, if I take the back way.

I made it to my consumer destination, list in hand, firm grip on my pocket book. It occurred to me to find someone to go with me, but I just didn’t have the energy to make the calls. Thankfully, a friend of mine broke some of the monotony by texting me as I roamed the aisles, distracting me with a conversation about his latest stalker.
Anyway, I was feeling pretty good about the effort. I found a pair of shoes for a business event later this month. I managed to uncover the location of electrical outlet covers without any assistance. No problems at all finding a little lip gloss.

Things got a little more complicated while looking for the mascara. First, it was apparently the afterschool shopping hour, as I had to make my way through a dozen giggling 'tweens and teens who were all agog at the great sale prices on electric blue eye shadow and lime green lipstick.

I finally found the plain old Cover Girl section and grabbed my standard tube of mascara. One of the young girls looked at the mascara in my hand, looked at my face, and boldly said, “Why are you buying that? You barely have any eyelashes!”

For a moment, I thought about explaining to her the whole notion of using it on the fake eyelashes I’ve procured, as a means of giving them a more natural look. As I studied the young girl’s face, shellacked with a few layers of foundation, half a tube of eyeliner, and enough glitter to light Las Vegas, and realized that she probably hadn’t quite garnered the meaning of “natural” yet.

I smiled at her and said, “Sweetie, it’s probably about the same reason as why you wear a bra. Even old ladies like me seek to be comfortable and secure while we wait for our hopes and dreams to manifest!”

Awkward as that all was, the crew of girls gave me a rather wide berth to exit the cosmetics section. Next on my list was finding a camisole and some underwear. Camisole wasn’t too hard, other than having to try on two, since I seem to constantly be between sizes these days.

Underwear was the place where I unwittingly hung myself out to dry. I’m down another size, which I’m surely not gonna complain about. Faced with too many choices in undergarments, I considered what was really important, ultimately deciding that getting comfortably and economically to yet another downward size was probably my most reasonable goal.

Having lost some 70 pounds since the beginning of the year, I have a lot more choices than just the standard granny-panty fare. Noting a sale rack of underthings, I took a look. All of garments on the rack were, in my estimation, rather ugly. They were, however, at a fabulous price. I decided that wearing ugly underpants was really a great incentive to get down to the next size in short order, and it’s not like anyone’s gonna see them, right? So I grabbed myself three pairs and headed to the cashier.

It was not until I got home, that I realized something dreadful about the purchase. As I entered the driveway, I was met with a deluge of rain, thunder and lightning. While unloading the booty from the trip, the lights began to flicker. Finally, as if tired of trying, the lights just went out. That’s when I noticed. The new ugly underwear casually strewn across my bed were GLOWING. How did I manage to get out of the store without noticing this key feature?

Why would I want glow in the dark underwear? It’s not like I can’t find my nether regions on my own. Just to make things interesting? I have no hair, for Pete’s sake. There’s a lot more things interesting about me right now than glowing undergarments. One of my girlfriends has boldly suggested that perhaps it will be helpful in directing traffic. Seriously? Do I really want to meet anyone—let alone find out intimately!—who needs that much assistance to find the family jewels???

This has left me with yet another conundrum. I want to take them back. I do. But I don’t want to have to face someone in a retail setting with the reality that I do not have the smarts to buy lowkey underwear on my own.

So, if you notice me glowing these days, say nothing. Just assume it’s me, taking yet another of life’s strange events in stride.

Getting Down to Earth...

This past week has been by far the most challenging in my path to wellness so far. The physical challenges have mounted.

A seemingly incurable headache that is at 69 days and counting.
Nausea. Vomiting. Dry Heaves.
Diarrhea.
Hair Loss.
Dizziness.
Difficulty concentrating.
Nightmares.
Chills, sweats, fever. Sometimes all within a matter of minutes.
Fatigue.
Tremors.
Bleeding.
Loosening teeth.
Abdominal pain.

I had to have a blood transfusion this week. Big shout out to the two AB-positive blood donors who made that possible. The blood episode exacted a cost I wasn’t prepared for, as well. For the second time in as many weeks, I have been faced with the financial realities of getting well. I had to decide whether to pay for my cash share of the blood transfusion or pay my Verizon bill. Unexpected medical bills don't meld well with working on a billable hour/consultant pay basis.  I made the obvious choice at the time. In retrospect, I wonder.

After 36 hours of no cell phone, withdrawal set in—twitching thumbs, irritability, attention deficit. I’m not so sure I would make the same decision again. Should there be a next time, I think I’ll choose the cell phone and upload pictures to my Facebook page of me sitting all thumbs up in the laps of Jesus, Josiah, and the Apostle Paul.

Anyway, the week was a tough one. By the time Sunday rolled around, I hadn’t eaten in a couple days. I hate to admit this, but I just sort of gave up. Nothing was staying down anyway. I had been contemplating how to get back on top of the mental game of all this, but I wasn’t coming up with much.

I was sitting at Starbuck’s trying to focus enough to finish a few work things on my computer, when I got a note indicating that there was a skydiving special going on in Lodi. My friend Maria, her sister Jennifer, and I have all been trying to figure out how to go for a while. I texted Maria and asked her if she was interested, but she had other things going on. Jennifer was in the middle of her three days of 12-hour nursing shifts.

With a few more phone calls, I was able to hustle up companions to at least drive with me to Sacramento, so I only had to drive a few miles on my own. It was something of a compromise situation, my compatriots telling me I should wait until I’m feeling better, and that, “someone has to be the adult here…” Fine.

I drove the last handful of miles to Lodi, and met up with Wendi, one of my Facebook buddies. She agreed to take photos of my jump. The next hour or so was one continuous shedding of fears, some of which, I’d never really consciously considered.

The first, was being in a crowd. After my number was called, I was directed to the gear room of the hangar, shuttled in with about twenty other people, in a fairly small space. It was kind of the same degree of angst I feel when in a crowded elevator.

Then, I was introduced to my tandem buddy, Logan. This handsome stranger began strapping me into my harness, clicking clasps and threading straps across my shoulders, around my thighs, and across my belly. I’m definitely not used to strangers being that close to me.

Once in the harness, Logan led me to the staging area, where he talked me through the basics of a 13,000 foot free fall. A tiny bit of fear began to set in. Before I could do much in the way of change my mind, he had me on the plane. Did I mention I’m also afraid of heights?

On the way up, Logan, Wendi and I made small talk over the roar of the engine. Logan began to strap me onto his harness. I warned him, “The last time I was this spooned up to a man, my son was the result, so pleeeease be careful back there!” He laughed and assured me that he was taking a lot of precautions.

As we neared jumping altitude, my stomach started to wretch a little. It made me wonder if anyone had ever lost their dentures or anything. Logan told Wendi and me that he’s been peed on, seen people ‘lose their lunch’, and the most curious: broke one of his head cameras. As he described it, “I was jumping with this woman, and all of a sudden it was, blue sky to the left, blue sky to the right, and then, BOOM- vagina!”

And he was worried about his camera?

As we waddled to the door of the plane, the fear momentarily set in, but I was resigned to jumping, as there were some huge guys behind us looking to get out of the plane, too. I as we edged to the door, I had that one ‘Oh Shit’ moment as I looked downward. When Logan instructed me to push off, that fear evaporated.

In realizing that I was strapped firmly to a guy who has been doing this for almost 20 years, fear gave way to awe and wonder. The feeling of sheer cold and wind was invigorating. I noticed in that moment that my headache was gone. The altitude and adrenaline rush had worked some magic.

During our 130-mph plummet back toward earth, Logan initiated some spins and turns that were invigorating, as if we were truly in flight. I was completely in awe of the enormity of the earth below us-- just one small section of it. As Logan pulled the cord on the parachute, we slowed, and I watched Wendi continue to fall at a much greater speed.

For a while, Logan handed over the pulleys to the parachute to me. It was fun to ‘drive’. With as much grace as I can muster (which admittedly, hasn’t always been enough), I’ve had to let go of so many things lately—control of my body, control of my living situation, relationships, and even parts of my future. It was nice to have control of where I floated over the farmlands of the Central Valley, even for just a few brief moments.

The scariest, most frustrating part of the whole experience was when we landed. I am far from the most graceful creature, even more so when strapped to someone else. Upon our landing, I went down. Down. On. My. Butt. And I could not get up. In that moment, I was confronted again with how weak I am right now. Fear of that weakness set in, and worse, fear of being judged for it. Before I could burden myself with too many more of those thoughts, there was a hand reaching down for me to help me up.

The whole experience made me think of how all the things that had overwhelmed me in the previous week were, just a small slice of my life, over time, and in this existence. I can make it through two or so more weeks. I can make it longer if I need to. I can do whatever it takes to kick the intruder’s ass. I’ll have help, I’ll have grace, and I’ll have the strength.

If for no other reason than there are surely more brilliant jumps from the sky in my future…

Filling in the Blanks

Susanne Baremore wants to (blank) with (blank) at (blank). Legitimate offers only, please. :-P

Last week, just for giggles (cuz my sense of humor is ESSENTIAL to getting through life these days…), I posted this on my Facebook page. The typical sophomoric discussion ensued, which was, in and of itself a nice distraction. I was flattered, curious, and even a little piqued by some of the submissions I received privately.

The winning submission though, was such a delightful and unexpected surprise.

My friend Karen texted me, “Susanne Baremore wants to lie in a hammock with lightly sweetened green tea at Karen and Dan’s house.”

Karen and Dan are friends I’ve known since I lived in Quincy. I met them in the middle of a dark night on Highway 36, when they stopped to help me with a flat tire back in 1995. Dan was then a forester, so we had lots of things in common, and Karen is the older sister of a colleague of mine from back in those days.

Upon receiving the text, I replied, “Oh heck yeah!” and made arrangements to go get me some hammock time. Karen and Dan own a home along the Sacramento River, with lush green grass and a superfluity of shade trees that gently meet at the river’s edge. Tied between two trees is a soft mesh hammock, which I rolled into, and almost immediately fell asleep. My slumber was caressed by a soft breeze, the sweet smell of green grass, and the sound of water winding its way to the central valley.

Even more satisfying was the fact that my dreams that afternoon were infinitely more pleasant than the medicinally-induced nightmares from which I suffer lately. The dream I had was reminiscent of a time when I was about nine or ten, and at my friend Bonnie’s house. Her step-mom Gloria, decided to barbeque for supper. I loved hanging out at Bonnie’s house, for no other reason than it was so different from mine. Bonnie’s family had a military background, and things were always bright, spic and span; a sharp contrast from the, um, less organized domestic infrastructure that was my childhood home.

The dream was full of the sounds of ice clinking in glasses, the sizzle of meat on the grill, the smell of butter melting on cob corn, and the liberating feel of eating outside of the confines of the traditional dining area. While we were waiting to eat, Bonnie and I raced to complete jigsaw puzzles on the picnic table. As usual, she was kicking my butt, being three years older, and an infinitely better sequential thinker than me.

As Karen gently roused me from my nap, I realized that the smells and sounds of my dream had become reality, as Karen guided me to a feast on their own picnic table.

I felt so rested and refreshed, as I ate a few small pieces of some of the best barbequed steak I’ve ever had, and spent time in the company of people who ‘get me’ in ways that most don’t.

As I was returning back to my parents’ house, I thought again of the inspiration of the day—throwing out some blank spaces and being brave enough to see how life might fill them in. I think I’m going to create more opportunities in life for things to unfold this way…

Thank You Will Never Be Enough

I am still grappling with the day’s events. I anticipate that I will, over time, write several blogs about this day, from various perspectives. No matter the angle from which I choose to view today’s events, I am unable to find a perspective that fully encapsulates the enormity of it all.

So, let’s start from the beginning.

I awoke this morning and dragged out the door to the doctor’s office. Today was the day that we were to discuss the next phase of medical options. In a nutshell:

Existing tumors showing no further response to treatment. New tumors growing in spite of it.

Remaining options:

1) Do nothing, live life with a tumor garden inside me, to an anticipated early death.

2) Try chemo, even though the pros aren’t sure that it will actually be any more effective than what I’ve been doing.

3) Opt for surgery which may or may not work, and will result in some significant life changes from here on out.

4) Quadruple current medications and add something else that will accelerate drug results.

Door number four is the decision I made. The doctor said that the prognosis still remains extremely good with the use of the new drugs, and that the fact that things have not progressed as we’d hoped to this point is more a matter of having to experiment to find the best and most effective treatment, than it is of being on a single course that simply won’t work.

The doctor suggested I take some time and think it over. I pointed out to him that the first three alternatives were identical the last time I had to make this decision, and nothing about my circumstances at this juncture compels me to feel any different about those options. The only option that has changed is trying new drugs. Bring ‘em on, I said.

Not that I would have necessarily made a different decision had I known, but the conversation from that point forward was all about the cost. The office manager told me that my share of cost for the next thirty days’ treatment (drugs, labs, imaging, etc.), above what the insurance will pay, is $20,000. She told me that there would not be a problem in getting it negotiated down to $10,000.

I’ll be honest. Some ugly and horrific thoughts bolted through my mind at that point. First: Is my life worth that much money?

I did the mental math. This morning, I had slightly more than half the cost for the treatment in my savings account. I thought about how much any number of people in my family could benefit from that much cash.

I decided, all things being equal, it was worth it to ME to find another $5,000 for the possibility of extending my life. I made arrangements with the doctor’s office to take the money off of my bank card later in the afternoon, after I transferred money between accounts. I said aloud, “Gosh, I guess I’d really best get to living right, so I can justify the expense of my existence.”

The office staff laughed courteously, and then hugged me and said good-bye.

The first part of the drive to Weaverville lacked much conversation as JC and I drove over Buckhorn. The CD player blared Talking Heads as I contemplated how to manage this latest medical/fiscal development. Finally, after mentally turning over a lot of ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’, I turned down the radio and shared my morning’s events with JC.

Upon expressing my concern about the cost, JC contemplated for a moment, and then said, “How many pies would you have to bake?” We both laughed as we thought about the time in 2004 when I raised money for my reconstructive surgery by baking pies and taking donations for them. All of a sudden, it almost seemed like a doable plan.

JC offered to do a benefit concert, and change the name of his garage band to 'Rapunzel's Sister', a nod to my current state as the antithesis to the namesake of the fairly-tressed fairy tale.

Our collective resourcefulness made me think about how, for the preceding two hours, I had been making the financial piece of this equation much bigger than it actually is. Shameful.

By the time we pulled into Weaverville, I had determined for myself that I would put the whole medical thing out of my mind and focus on some things I could manage at work. I banged away at things that needed to be completed, gaining a sense of satisfaction at seeing results.

Around 10:30, my cell phone rang. The doctor’s office. I answered the phone, immediately launching into my plan for moving funds, etc. The office manager stopped me. She explained to me that purpose of her call was to report that someone—who wished to remain anonymous—had written a check for the patient balance of my treatment. Someone—whom I presumably do not know—wrote a check for $5,000 so that I can continue taking up space, using up oxygen.

I have been struggling all day to find words to express what the knowledge of that feels like. Thankful. Humbled. Grateful. Amazed. Awed. Shocked. Inspired. Fearful. Loved. Relieved. Appreciated. Alive. Curious. Blessed. Challenged. Eager. Indebted. Grateful, Thankful, Thankful, Grateful.

I am curious to know what compelled such an amazing act of generosity. Was it something I did? Or didn’t do? Or maybe it’s not me at all, but the memory of a loved one. Or the burden of compassion placed on a stranger’s heart by a spiritual force bigger than us all. The enormity of the grace-- the pure, unmerited favor-- of it all has left me staggering.

I am not a woman who generally runs short of words. Long ones, short ones, in between ones, I usually have from one to too many for any occasion. I just don’t know how to properly say thank you to someone for believing that my life is worth living. It feels like a situation where the only real way to show appreciation for such a precious and invaluable gift is to demonstrate gratitude through a life lived well.

Even that sounds trite and clichéd, but I think in this instance, it’s sort of all I’ve got. The chance to live life, and life more abundantly, no matter the terms in which it’s granted, is both the gift and the expectation.

Chivalrous S**t: Or—The Bad Example *Some* of Us Set in Weaverville Today

Because some of my friends have been so kind as to chauffer me around on some of my longer trips, I saw fit today to return the favor. JC and Dave needed some help in shuttling for today’s Trinity raft trip, so I gladly obliged. My job was to go swap out a 2-seater sports car for my car, and pick them all up back in Weaverville when they returned in the van.

I loaded my phone, laptop, etc., and got on the road, with yet another friend, Amy. The whole trip was going swimmingly well as we made all the appointed stops.  I was able to blow through some work on my laptop, and stay abreast of email, etc. When I was a kid in Shingletown, much of my time growing up was spent without a telephone of any kind. It’s hard for me to put myself back in that time and understand how we got along. My cell phone is a permanent appendage now.

When everyone met back up in Weaverville, I ran a few errands, including a stop in the courthouse. Bonus there—I FINALLY made it through the metal detector without setting it off, having rid myself of wig, underwires, jewelry, and shoes. Go me.

After exiting the building, I walked down the main drag and met up with my friends for lunch. I enjoy dining in Weaverville just because of the close knit feel of every place in town. It’s like a good friend’s mom is in every kitchen fixing up a meal just for us.

Upon filling all our bellies, we walked out to the parking lot to begin our trek back to Redding. Just as we were rearranging gear in the car to accommodate the extra people, my cell phone rang.

“I have the doctor on the line. Is this a good time to speak with you?” Some faceless soul asked me. She told me her name, but given everything else that transpired in the conversation, her moniker is a buried memory. Her voice though, the echo of it is burned into my brain.

I motioned to my companions and wandered under the shade of a large oak-like tree, dropping myself to the base of the tree’s broad trunk. One of the things I like about my doctor is that he’s direct and to the point. With tactical and technical precision, it took him less than three minutes to make my body physically deflate and fill with that brand of fear and dread that makes one think that their innards have just emulsified to pure liquid. It wasn’t until I finished with the call that I realized I was crying, or that my friends were all gathered near me.

Someone said, “OMG, what’s wrong??”

Someone else, who shall remain N*amy*less (oops!) said, “Dude, can’t you tell? She just found out that her s**t’s all f**ked up!”

What made that comment so hilarious is that I’ve never in all the years I’ve known the woman heard her say so much as ‘darn’ or ‘shucks’, let alone s**t or f**k. I laughed.

While I was laughing, Dave said, “So, you still have cancer?”

I laughed again, not because of what Dave said, but because I was still thinking about what Amy said, and trying to decide if I should classify it as a cute-yet-inappropriate euphemism, or considering the exact nature of my current circumstances, a deeply sardonic metaphor. My mind is a strange place, I know.

Before I could even fully finish that thought, I heard a big smack as JC threw a punch at Dave, saying, “She doesn’t HAVE cancer, you moron. She’s kickin’ it’s ASS!”

As Dave swung back, both men fell to the ground and began that peculiar wrestling between males that seems so odd to me. I began to laugh again, tears still streaming down my face. Everyone turned and looked at me.

Points to JC for so fully investing in my vision. Demerits to both boys for hitting a friend. Violence solves nothing, so said Ghandi, MLK, and ME.

At that point, it seemed as if we’d all been sucked into a vacuum. I didn’t hear the traffic from the highway, the breeze in the trees, or anything at all. For just a moment, I felt like JC had swung and landed that punch by proxy, for the damnable way I felt as the words of the doctor filtered through my brain.

“Am I supposed to be honored that the two of you are fist-to-cuffs over my ‘shit’? How chivalrous!”

Somehow, as the sarcasm oozed, I felt the life begin to creep back into me, as if now there was more adequate room for it.

Slowly, as the shock wore off, I stood up, dusted myself off and said, “The mission hasn’t changed. Just the length of time required to accomplish it.”

As we drove back to Redding, I began dealing with tactical details—scheduling additional doctor appointments, extending medical coverage, strategizing over how to traverse another month of treatment.

Honestly, the fear only lasted but a split second. What I think I initially succumbed to, was just disappointment. I had been so hopeful that I would be done on Monday. I had put my faith to work and made plans—sky diving weekend, house hunting, etc.

This is far from the first time in life I’ve suffered a large-scale disappointment, and it’s sure not to be my last. I refuse to stay mired in that setback, though. The things I’d planned will keep until I’m done with this phase of life.

I’m choosing instead to embrace the opportunities before me. I have the chance now to discover how much greater a degree of endurance I possess within me. I have the option of prevailing through the unexpected. I have the privilege of continuing to learn to live life in ways I’d never considered.

Since my locks will be ‘vacationing elsewhere’ longer than I’d anticipated, I think I’m gonna go ahead and find one of those shirts that says, “I’m too sexy for my hair.”

I think I’m gonna continue taking advantage of the opportunity to write.

I think I'm gonna continue enjoying the scope and focus of the work I'm doing, because for whatever reason, its is a huge component of sustaining my good outlook through all this.

I think (KNOW) I’m gonna drink some really great wine tonight.

And all the rest of my ‘shit’ can take a holiday while I continue to kick ass like a ninja, because that’s what I’m gonna do. For another 30 days. Or however long it takes.

Attitude is Everything, Even if You Have to Borrow Someone Else's

Last week I was in Shopko, trying to find a swim top that would contain my busty self. I learned this is not an easy task in August in Redding. I just wanted to find something that would stay put, convey comfort, and that was C-H-E-A-P.

Consumer options are limited on the best of days in the Redding retail world. I believe that the presumption on the part of retailers in Redding is that by August, everyone who’s gonna be suited up, is suited up. And maybe that’s true. It wouldn’t be the first time I didn’t deal with the season’s wardrobe needs until half past the season’s change.

The swimsuit selection was narrowed down to a single small rack of suits that clearly just weren’t going to sell. There wasn’t a single top in my size. Frustrated, I wandered over to the sports bras and found something attractive, which honestly, meaningfully covers more of me than any of those swimsuits would have.

By this time, I was feeling pretty burnt out. Shopping wears me out on a good day. I was tired and nauseated to boot. And then there was the whole seeing myself in the dressing room mirror thing. I look fat(ter) without my hair. My skin hangs off my face. The dark bags under my eyes make those orbs look haunting. I dragged myself to the checkout counter feeling like 180 pounds of death-warmed-over-crap-on-toast. No matter, it was really the perfect accompaniment to the pity party I’d been pitching myself all day like it was time for high tea with the queen.

As I approached the cashier, a smile drew across my face as she commented on my head scarf—a blue, yellow and green number with a “Peace” and “Love” design on it. “You really do that scarf some justice,” she said.

Noting her name on her name tag, I said, “Thanks, Val.” I wasn’t feeling too hospitable. I just wanted to get out of the store.

“My sister wore scarves like that when she was getting rid of her cancer.” This made me perk up. It’s not all that often that I hear people use vernacular similar to mine. I refuse to say that I “have” cancer, because it feels like then I’m admitting that it has me, too. I’m not going there.

I smiled at Valerie again as she handed me my change, and told her to have an awesome day. Valerie looked at me again and said, “You smile just like Aimee did, too. You’re gonna kick this thing.”

I thanked her and walked toward the door. Like Aimee “did”?

I exited the building, bracing myself to take on the next challenge of recalling where I parked my car. As I was scanning the parking lot, I felt someone’s hand on my shoulder. Startled, I turned around and faced Valerie.

Quickly, almost furtively, Valerie asked me, “Can you come back in on Wednesday or Thursday next week? I have something I want to give you.”

I was a little confused as I answered her tentatively, “Sure?”

Recognizing my reluctance, Valerie explained to me that she wanted to give me a scarf that belonged to her sister, Aimee. She told me how Aimee fought off cancer and lived another two years before she was randomly hit by a drunk driver while crossing a street in Sacramento.

I didn’t even know what to say to that, but agreed to come back and meet her.

When I returned to Shopko earlier this week, I met up with Valerie, and she gave me the scarf, as promised. Upon reflection, I don’t know that I had any expectation of exactly what kind of scarf she was talking about. As Valerie handed me an ordinary looking white bandana, I was struck by its simplicity.

I listened as Valerie told me about how much Aimee’s battle with cancer changed her own perspective on life, and how rich it made Aimee’s life as she made the most of two more years of “life’s second chance” by traveling, finishing her master’s degree, and designing her own home.

“We all live on borrowed time,” Valerie told me.

I don’t know that I agree with that. I believe we live in our appointed time. Our allotted time. But sometimes, I think we keep that appointment on borrowed faith and hope. I am grateful for those who share.

I Don't Know What to Call this... Must It Have a Title if I Wish to Speak?

Really and truly I have some much more lighthearted things lined up to write about, but this has been streaming around in my head for a few days, and on the ride home from Hayfork today, it just sort of finally gelled.


I know that it may seem like a fine line to some, the emotional place I’m walking these days. I think of my present state of mind as grace and acceptance. Others like to call it denial or delusion. As much as anyone, I would like to have answers to most of the questions that burn in my head lately—why am I sick? Why me? Why now? I cannot get my friend Heather out of my mind, thinking of how in 2007, she lost her two year-old daughter Rebekah to a long struggle with cancer. Why?

At no other time in my life, do I think I could have continued functioning in any practical manner without obsessing over all the question marks.

A few months back, when I began dealing with my health issues, I had a strange memory that I have been clinging to lately, like a precious gift. I think of this seemingly insignificant event almost daily, seeing the careful seed that was planted then, bearing fruit that is sustaining me now.

Back in the spring of 1995, I was at a Board of Supervisors’ meeting in Quincy, CA. That season had brought a lot of nervousness and unrest to our region and our nation. It was the time that the Oklahoma City bombing occurred. I lost a friend and mentor in that event. It was in that same time that the Unabomber struck at the California Forestry Association and killed its president, Gil Murray. Even strangers Gil had never met lost a friend as he opened a mail bomb in his office.

As the Plumas County Board of Supervisors commenced their meeting that day, Supervisor Bill Coates gave the ritual invocation that started every meeting. I’ve been to hundreds of meetings where the prayers, whether due to nervousness, politics, a busy agenda, or other unknowns, seem to come out full of pomp and pretense.

In the time I knew Bill, one of the things I truly appreciated about him was that he had that kind of comfortable relationship with his god that was illustrated in prayers that came out warm, intimate, and sincere. He didn’t throw up a bunch of words to the heavens and hope they’d stick. His prayers were those of a man who knows the God he serves. That day, Bill prayed, “God, I ask that you help us all find peace, even in the face of not having answers to the questions that burn in our hearts and in our minds.”

Back then, they were words that brought comfort in a time of grief and stress. Lately for me, they have been words that have challenged me to prove that I can be a good steward of the grace and peace and faith that I am finding in such superfluity.

I don’t think it matters where one’s spiritual compass exists—whether you believe in a Christian god, a karmic universe, the Golden Rule, or guide your life by the list of ingredients on a box of Cap’n Crunch—at some point in time, we are all faced with dilemmas in life that we cannot control, cannot answer, or cannot sometimes even fathom. We all have to find ways to accept the things we cannot change, preferably with enough grace and courage to propel us forward to better things and as better beings.

Most of my life I have not been one to let things lay. If it’s broken, I want to fix it. If it’s unjust, I want to seek justice. If it’s wrong, I want to make it right. I want to seek information, formulate a strategy, and implement a plan. It’s not easy to be still, listen, and wait. I’ve never given those tools the merit or respect they deserve until now.

I’m learning a lot about grace and patience these days. I don’t need to know why anything around me is the way it is in order to be who and what I’m called to be. I don’t need to know how things are going to turn out in order to make the most of the gifts I’m given in this present day.

Great Expectations -- My Own

In recent days, I’ve had a few things happen to me that have brought me an amazing insight into my interactions with others. Since I’ve been dealing with my medical condition, I have been almost militant in my decision to march through this thing like I’ve got no business but to be victorious on the other side. This has required me to really step out of my comfort zone. I’ve had to lovingly remind others that this is my life, my ‘fight’, and I am the one most impacted by the decisions.


By nature, I am a pleaser. Getting sideways with people is not really my thing. I will generally avoid conflict at all costs. In sticking to my guns about some of my recent life decisions, I’ve had to be a bit bolder with folks. That does not come easy.

I don’t know if it’s because I tend to avoid conflict, if it’s because I have a way of coming off more casual than I should sometimes, or if it’s my appearance or something else; but I’ve realized recently, that a good number of folks over the years have underestimated me. It’s been frustrating, disappointing, and even hurtful at times, and I’ve never really known how to deal with it or address it. Unfortunately, I’ve pretty much just let bitterness and disappointment in others take the reins in these situations.

People have dismissed my ideas because they do not come with the full force of a college education. People have discredited my ability to parent because I was a single parent for most of my children’s upbringing. People have sold me short in what I bring to relationships or partnerships.

What I’ve learned in the past few days is that none of those things really should have mattered, then or now. The key thing that I need to change is what I do with that kind of information. To what extent I let others’ perceptions of me impact what I can and should do is MY RESPONSIBILITY. The fact that someone else does not see the full force and effect of what I am doing or what I have to offer should not deter me from actually putting forth everything I have to give in a situation.

That’s gonna change from here on out.

Today, I was pent up in a doctor’s office all day long, waiting for my five minutes with a specialist. I worked from my Droid and some other borrowed technology in the lobby all day. The office manager was very disapproving. I remember thinking, “This lobby may not be my office, lady, but this lobby is also not my LIFE, and you’re treating me like I’ve got nothing better to do.” My consulting work may not be of consequence to that office manager, but my clients don’t feel the same. Miss Wendy, for instance, was rather panicked. 

I try not to make a big deal of these things, but I pulled the C-card on her. I told her that I may not have long to live and debating how I use my time in ‘her’ lobby was silly.

Later, when I FINALLY got out of that place, I was able to convince JC, my 23 year-old lifeguard friend, to go out to the lake with me for a quick swim. We went to one of the more deserted trail areas across from Oak Bottom.

I am sensitive to the fact that my decision to go for a swim in public right now has the capacity to make people uncomfortable. It’s part of why we chose a more secluded area. We walked about a quarter-mile down a trail to a place where there’s lots of water, sunshine, and a fair amount of privacy. I stripped down to my bikini swimsuit—stretch marks, ass fat, cellulite and all; and took off my jewelry and my head scarf. Just about the time we were getting in the water, an older woman, in probably her late 50’s, walked by, and stood looking aghast at us (me).

The woman shouted down to us in the water, “Should you really be out here swimming in your condition?”

I looked at her and said, “Actually, swimming is really therapeutic for me right now.”

JC and I looked at each other and turned to start swimming on our predetermined route.

“Do you realize you have no hair?”

I laughed. JC looked at me with wide eyes and said, “OMG, you have no hair! Susanne, is there anything else you’re not telling me???”

The woman on the shore then said, “Obviously, you’re sick. Should you really be swimming?”

JC told her, “Uh, that’s why I’m here. I’ll help her if she gets stuck.”

The woman then stomped off. JC and I began swimming to a small nearby island, I, stroking methodically, he, pulling along a floaty in case I got tired, and both of us still laughing about the “you have no hair” comment.

When JC and I got back from the island, our woman friend and a park ranger were waiting for us at the shore.

Apparently, the woman had gone and found a ranger to ‘tattle’ on me for being in the lake while bald and in poor health. Of course, upon our exit from the water, the old gal was doing all kinds of back pedaling.

“I was just really worried for her safety. What if she would have drowned?”

Upon assuring the woman that I appeared none the worse for wear, was in the company of a strong, qualified swimmer, AND had a flotation device, the ranger hiked back out to go find more worthwhile ranger-like things to do, and thankfully, took the worry wart with him.

I sat on the shore with JC and thought some more about the woman, realizing that she too, had underestimated me. The swim today was one of the best things about the day, after being cooped up in a doctor’s office, and stressing over work stuff. It was nice to move, it was nice to be in the water-- a place where my body hurts a little bit less. It was nice to be tired because of my own exertion, and not because of what’s going on inside me. And it was nice to swim a good distance, because I KNEW I COULD. What someone else thought or expected of me was not relevant.  A year ago, I probably would have gotten out of the water to placate the woman.  I would have missed a nice swim, and the fulfillment of my own great expectations.