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.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
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
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
Thursday, September 23, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, September 17, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
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?
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, September 6, 2010
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…
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…
Saturday, September 4, 2010
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…
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…
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