Warning: Adult Content

It is not my intention to offend anyone with this. In fact, it is my hope that I will not...

While my sister, Melissa, was in the hospital this summer, I was reminiscing, and mentioned to my daughter, Meagan, that Missy and I used to write letters to each other through the years. Meagan asked if I had one, so she could see Missy's actual writing.

The day that Missy died, I was going through some things, looking for my Dad's obituary (which Missy had written), so I could use it as a model. I found a note that Missy had sent me during our Bad-Words-Are-Funny phase. She had addressed me as "Shitbiscuit," and signed it, "Love, Fuckbucket." It made me smile to see that again, so I took it with me when I met Meagan for lunch. I pulled it out and said, "Here's Missy's writing." Once Meagan stopped laughing, she told me that she had planned to have a bracelet made for me with Missy's name, in her own writing. Just picturing that kept me laughing throughout what would have otherwise been a day filled with tears.

The next morning, as I sat looking out the window, I suddenly knew that Missy wanted me to have that bracelet.

One more Missy memory to treasure -- thank you so much, my Meagan.

A Little Bird

It's been a little over three weeks since my sister, Melissa, died. I thought I was processing everything quite well. Here, in North Carolina, my life looks pretty much the same as it did before. For the last thirty-some years, I'd really only seen Missy once a year or so. The real difference is knowing that she'll no longer be there to go home to. That I won't ever again hear her voice say, "How are you?" and that I'll never receive another e-mail from my Roley. With all of that, I felt happy just knowing that, for Missy, there will be no more pain.

Then yesterday, I was suddenly overcome by a terrible feeling of desperation at the thought of everything that I'll be missing for the rest of my life, of everything that she will be missing. Missy got so much joy out of little things. There are so many little things she is missing every day. Suddenly, the thought of her being in a "better place" didn't bring comfort. I couldn't find any happy thoughts.

But wait...

Every day since we've returned from Michigan, if I've looked out early enough in the morning, I've seen a little speckled bird sitting on the railing of our deck. She opens and closes her beak, and the sound that comes out is actually twit-ter. She may have been there all summer, but I never noticed her until after Missy's funeral.

Today, just after noon, I closed my book, looked out the window and actually said, "I can't find any happy thoughts" as I gave in to tears. Guess who showed up. My little brown Missy-Bird. She twittered a few times, then turned her back and mooned me.

I feel better now.

Shhh...I'm Trying To Worry Here

Sometimes I call myself a Thinker. I like the way that sounds, kind of like I'm deep and pensive, a well of unplumbed wisdom just waiting to be tapped.

But if I'm being honest, I have to admit that when you see me sitting with my chin in my hand and my brow slightly furrowed, I'm not so much thinking as I am worrying.

Yep, I'm a Worrier. I actually enjoy worrying, and I'm quite good at it. I worry about things that have already happened, things that are about to happen and things that might happen. Sometimes I even worry about things that could have happened, but didn't.

I do not worry about things I don't know about. I just ignore those things. But, if you give me just one little piece of information about something (maybe with the intention of keeping me from worrying), I will put it in a little box for safekeeping, and then veer around crazily, gathering up any other parts of the picture that I might be able to worry about.

That's where I am right now with regard to being in the "Pre-Transplant" program at Duke University Medical Center.

In October, I was told that, although I have serious lung disease (i.e., "end-stage" lung disease), I was still far too healthy for a transplant. That was all I needed to know -- then. I was happy not to have to worry about that stuff. But this Wednesday, I go back to Duke for reevaluation. Since I don't know anyone who has actually had a lung transplant, I decided to prepare myself by doing a little reading. (The Lung Transplantation Handbook, Second Edition, by Karen A. Couture, published 2001.)

I've only just begun, and already, I have enough information to worry myself to death before Wednesday!

For instance, the number of people who die while waiting for new lungs is more than half of the number of people who actually, receive them, which is but a fraction of the number of people on the list. By way of encouragement, I suppose, it's pointed out that several strategies for increasing the number of lungs donated have recently emerged, such as "exploring the use" of lungs from patients with less-than-perfect chest x-rays, and accepting lungs from donors over 55 years old, or who have a smoking history. I mean !!!!!! You might as well tell me you got my new lungs from the Dollar Store!

And that's only in the "Before Transplantation" section of the book. I can hardly wait to read about what actually happens during a transplant. Surely some bones will broken. That's gotta hurt. I don't handle pain very well. I barely survived the pain from my simple little ankle break a few years ago!

And it's already been hinted that afterwards, there will be drugs with serious, even life-threatening, side effects that I would have to take for the rest of my life. (I'm not even going to mention that that might not actually be very long, based on the bar graph of survival rates.)

See what I mean? I've struck the worrier's jackpot!

I'll be okay, though. I know it doesn't sound like it right now, but I really am a positive person (albeit one who enjoys worrying, as one might enjoy a relaxing hobby). What I'm not is a good decision-maker, tending, as I do, to just go "Click, that's my decision." But I realize that this one will probably be taken out of my hands. When that happens, I will be able to accept whatever is to be. My glass isn't just half-full, after all -- it's overflowing.

As for worrying about -- and fearing -- the unknown, I am going to try to remember something recently posted on facebook by a dear friend who just underwent a double mastectomy...FEAR -- Face Everything And Rise.

Cinder

Cinder Jade Fischer, because any cat worth the fur she sheds has a middle name.

Eighteen years. I remember so well the day they brought you home, Greg, Meagan and Dj. It had been Meagan's doing (and my undoing), taking Dj to a pet store and letting him hold kittens. In all of his nine years, he had never had that experience. (Don't judge me -- there are lots of kids around the world who have had far less.) After that, nothing would do but for the boy to have a kitten of his own.

Now I know this will come as no surprise to you, Cinder (but I hope I've fooled at least a few other people) -- I am not a Cat Lover. Oh, I admire cats for their grace and beauty, and I love how adorable they are when they play. But if I had to choose, I'd say I prefer dogs, just because you always know where you stand with a dog. A dog loves you. Period. With cats, it's not always obvious.

Then along came you, with all your cuddly cuteness, so vulnerable in your tininess, yet with that Big Kitty Attitude.

Do you remember your first day with us? We had that big old clumsy dalmatian, Baby. She was so excited, anxious to see what we were holding. We had no fears that she wanted to harm you, because her tail was wagging like...well, like Dj's would have been if he'd had one. And she had this big, stupid grin on her face (also like Dj's). But, as you were about one-tenth her size, we thought it better to keep you separated for a little while. That's how I ended up that day, sitting on the sofa in the basement, cradling you between my shoulder and my neck, while everyone else was upstairs convincing Baby (unnecessarily) that no one would ever take her place.

That was when I caved and admitted that I did like cats, maybe just a little. But it was you, Cinder. Honestly, you're the only cat I've ever truly loved. Maybe it was because of Baby, who soon became your best buddy. Maybe it's that she instilled in you all the best qualities of a dog. I mean, you would come when you were called, you never climbed the fence to leave the yard (although you certainly could have), and you would pee on command (the command being "Be a good girl,") just like Baby. When company would come, you wouldn't go all aloof and disappear, but rather, you'd stay around and be sociable.

Oh, you were loved, Cinder, by everyone who met you, but especially by the people in this family. Even me. I know that most of the time, I took you for granted, allowing everyone else to shower you with physical signs of affection, holding back until you and I were the only ones home before I would bury my face in your fur and revel in the wonderful pillowishness of you. Often, I was annoyed with you for wanting to come in when you were out and go out when you were in, and for meowing pitifully for lunch at 9:30 in the morning. I never tried to hide it. But I loved you.

I loved you for the beauty you brought to our home -- how you graced our chairs and sofa and beds with your glorious orangeness.

Mostly, I loved you for the happiness you brought us. Everyone had their own special way of loving you, of playing with you. And you were always game.

I loved you, Cinder. I just loved you, you Big Orange Cat, you. And I will miss you.