Before I Met You

Before I met you, I loved you...

...the words I'm sure every mother hears in her heart the first time she holds her baby--the baby she already knows and loves--in her arms.

This is from the blog I wrote for my daughter, Meagan, on her birthday in 2008...

I hope that some day you will know what it's like to hold a newborn child that has been, very intimately, a part of you for nine whole months. I hope that you will then be able to describe -- better than I have ever been able to -- what that feels like. I know the word for it is Love. But it's such a strange and special love. I hope, my precious daughter, that you will have the same love for a child of your own some day. (Ok -- that's all about me becoming a grandma. But really -- I want it for you, too!)

My granddaughter, Charlotte, was born in January of 2010. In December of that year, I wrote this in Meagan's blog...

Meagan has said things like, "I just can't believe how much I love her," to which I reply, "So now you know how much I love you." It's true, and I can prove it; I wrote it in the journals that I kept for Meagan when she was a baby. I once wrote about holding her for hours, just watching her sleep. I had started crying because the love I felt for her was so overwhelming. (I came across that entry shortly after Meagan had told me the same thing about holding Charlie while she slept.)

If I were to make a list of all the things that I adore about Meagan, you wouldn't have time to read it. In some ways, she's like me, and in many ways she's not. But I know that the love she feels for her daughter lets her know the power of the love I have for her. That makes me happy.

I love you, Meagan Day Fischer Kopp. I hope you have a wonderful birthday!

Dear Santa

Hey, Santa, why the scowl? I guess 2016 must have gotten to you a little bit, too, huh?

Well, on the bright side, your sleigh will be lighter than usual when you head out on Saturday night. In fact, I'll bet the only people on your "Nice" list are the ones who don't have media access, and somehow managed not to hear about that election we had last month. Oh, sure there were a few who were able refrain from saying (i.e., posting on facebook) all the mean words they were thinking about the candidates and the people who supported them. I know a couple of those folks myself, and I gotta say, they deserve all the gifts. Such restraint is truly admirable.

The rest of us will just have to suck it up and buy our own stuff. Sad, to be sure, but it's what we deserve. Besides--and I'm only speaking for myself here--the satisfaction of "winning" an argument by getting in the last word (even if it was only because the other guy had already logged off) was its own reward. Not to mention all the likes and laughing emojis--those were fun. I'll be able to bask in my warm memories of being applauded for my bitchiness while my nicer friends are opening their gifts on Christmas morning.

Merry Christmas, Santa. I really am going to might do better in 2017!

Let's Start at the Very Beginning...

...A very good place to start. Well, usually.

This morning, my beginning came at 3:30, when My Awesome Husband Greg collapsed into bed and said "Ella is still outside. I hope she's not dead, because I want to kill her."

Don't worry. He wouldn't harm a hair on her stubby little tail. He was just in a sleepy stupor, and worried. So of course, I was worried. And awake. And whenever I'm awake at 3:30 a.m., my brain thinks it's a good time to chat, and starts saying things like What the hell--technically, it's morning. You might as well just get up.

But my body was quite comfortable in my soft bed with its flannel sheets. I tried telling my brain to shut up and close her eyes, but she was already rocketing off in a dozen different directions...

You still have decorating to do--and shopping! Have you even made a list yet? You should probably write a few checks, too. And if you're not sending out Christmas cards--again--you at least owe a few people thank you notes...Dust much? Oh, and check out those bathrooms. Dis-gus-ting! By the way, who do you think is going to put away all that junk in the dining room? (Interestingly, I didn't hear one single word about that stupid wayward cat.)

Stubbornly, determined to win, I stayed in bed until five, listening and trying to pretend not to. I might have just managed to shut out the noise when my alarm went off. Sigh.

So now it's 8:00. I've had three cups of coffee and a bowl of cereal. I watched Jordyn get on the bus at 5:45 and caught two segments of my "Local on the 8's" on The Weather Channel. Then I switched to CNN for my morning briefing, because even though I'm, like, a smart guy, too, I like to start my day with the most current information available. I finished the chapter I was reading in my book--"Take this Man," by Brando Skyhorse--and caught up on Words With Friends. I checked my notifications and memories on facebook and I let that damned cat in and/or out several times.

Who, by the way, was sitting inside the kitchen door when I lurched toward the coffee pot at 5:00. Let that sink in. She wasn't even--and hadn't been--outside! We do have a system, but unfortunately, it's not foolproof. Door unlocked = cat out; door locked = cat in. But sometimes the person who lets her in or out is on the phone, or has something in his/her hand, and can't (remember to) change the lock. Or someone might be in the basement when she demands to be let out--or in--and doesn't notify the person upstairs to change the lock. And of course neither one of the people who live in this house is very good at remembering, when questioned later, whether the cat was last seen coming or going. Which is what led to the system that doesn't always work in the first place. Sometimes we just have to guess--which is what Awesome Greg was doing at 3:30 this morning.

This is probably going to be a long day in which not much gets accomplished. But I'm hoping yours is good and productive.

Another Cup of Coffee, Please

From his tee shirt and torn jeans she thought he might be a student, but if you added a jacket or sweater, maybe a plaid shirt, he could easily be a professor. It was the shaggy hair and scruffy beard, the dark rimmed glasses, that made it hard to decide.

What she did know from the few times she'd brought him his coffee (two creams, please) and two plain donuts was that he was polite, soft-spoken and shy. And friendly. He had a smile that made her feel like he was tuned into her wavelength. He was also a generous tipper. She felt like he must have been in her position before--taking orders and bringing food to people who weren't always appreciative. She wished more of her customers were like him.

He never seemed to be in a hurry, but he never lingered past his second cup of coffee. She wished he would some time. She wanted to follow him, to see how he spent the rest of his day...to see if he was really as nice as he seemed. A sad statement about the times we live in, she thought,when the kindness of strangers qualifies as the Mystery of the Day.

Feeling Good

I didn't blog yesterday, for the first time in 45 days. I wanted to. I had a couple drafts going, but neither one of them was really speaking to me, and I didn't want them speaking for me. They've both been deleted.

In case you're wondering, one was a writing prompt about how my favorite mystical creature would solve a current sociopolitical problem. I wanted it to be funny, but the only funny part was when I asked My Awesome Husband Greg if Donald Trump could be considered a sociopolitical problem. He said "You're a sociopolitical problem."

I actually did some research for the other one. I found photos of rocket skates and human gyroscopes for a post about things I might want to take up after my lung transplant. I really wasn't feeling that one, either.

Today, however, I came across a writing prompt I thought I could work with--"The Best Feeling in the World."

Of course I can't choose just one, so I'm going to make a list of all my best feelings...

1. Holding a sleeping newborn, its head nestled between your neck shoulder so all you have to do to catch a whiff of perfection is tilt your head just a tiny bit.

2. Spending time with friends when it feels like each of you was created for the sole purpose of making the other feel understood and loved. This can be a large group of friends, a couple, or just one; wine may or may not be part of the good feeling.

3. Having a family, whether you were born into it, or invited. Nothing feels better than knowing that there are people who love you and will stand behind you, no matter what kind of a jerk you might be.

4. Being a child at Christmas. If those days are behind you, then being a part of a child's Christmas, knowing that you can perform magic at least one day out of the year.

5. Making someone smile or laugh, especially when they seem frowny and sad. This works for strangers behind you in the grocery store as much as the people who live in your house.

6. Knowing that Christmas is only two weeks away and you still have a lot to do, but remembering--before panic sets in--that everything that really matters will get done, and everything else will fall into place--like magic.

7. Wishing everyone you see a Merry Christmas and a Happy Holiday Season because you know Christmas isn't the only holiday being celebrated this time of year, and you want to include everyone in your best feelings.

May you all have peace and love and joy, and all of your best feelings--this season, and always!

Family Pictures

I come from a long line of amateur photographers. My grandfather had a camera that he could set on a timer and capture moments like this. Apparently there was just enough time for him to jump into the picture, but not to say "Smile!" (That's my mom, second from the right in the front row. I'm stunned by how much Karen looks like her.)

This one from Christmas at Grandma and Grandpa's in 1963 holds so many memory triggers...The red couch, the blond two-level end table with the iconic fish lamp and The Last Supper hanging in the dining room--even Aunt Cathey in her holiday apron. I can still see my grandmother sitting at the table playing solitaire, Jesus and the Apostles keeping watch.

We have an abundance of photos of my sisters and my brother Mark and me, either posing in front of a Christmas tree or wearing new pajamas and clutching new toys. (Sometimes, like in this one, all three elements are present.)

But this one from the 70's is the only one I've come across that stretches far enough to include my brother, Jason, who was born when I was 19.

That's why I was delighted when this one showed up on facebook the other day. It more than makes up for all those missing years.

Merry Christmas to families everywhere!

Nativity Scene(s)

The babe's in the manger,
Asleep on the "hay;"

(Just a little excelsior, really.)

Shepherds and wise men
Their respects come to pay.

(Oh, and the wise men bring gifts, probably to make up for the fact that they're late due to taking the long way around.)

It's awkward at first,
All crammed in together,

(See how the camel is hiding behind the wise men? He's embarrassed because he's from a different nativity set, which was clearly made to a smaller scale.)

Magi and shepherds
Discussing the weather.

(They haven't yet discovered the true meaning of Christmas. They're just trying not to stare at the ox and the ass, who are missing an ear apiece.)

Then comes the magic
We all know occurred...

(Like in that song, O Holy Night...)

At the birth of that baby,
All hearts were stirred.

(And that's why we try to be extra nice at Christmas. It has nothing to do with Santa, really.)

And then there's the version where Joseph and Mary arrive at the inn, Mary carrying Baby Jesus in he arms, because apparently she had already had him, and the manger wasn't ready yet or something. There was an ox and an ass, but no one could ride them because of their confining outfits, so they all just "hoofed" it. But it was still Christmas.

Can We Talk?

Can we talk?

Not really. Well, you can talk. I'll just sit quietly and listen...

Like hell I will! That would be like me sitting and watching you dance, when I can't anymore. Not gonna happen.

Because, even though I really can't talk anymore, I can't stop trying. I'm not sure what's going on with my vocal cords, but it's apparently connected to my lungs. At least that's what they told me last year, when I began having occasional choking incidents. I was sent for speech therapy and given some exercises, blah-blah-blah. I've already blogged about that.

So now my voice is in the going-going stage of being gone. A mere rasp in the morning becomes barely a squeak by the time Awesome Greg gets home from work. Unless I'm right in front of him, using hand gestures and exaggerated lip action, he can't hear me. He can tell I'm saying something, but it doesn't sound like words. At first, if he's had a good day, he might say something like "What's that? I couldn't hear you." But after three or four attempts at being nice, he just snarls "Wha-a-a-t?!!" in an annoyed--and annoying--manner. I understand, but sometimes it makes me want to yell back at him--which is no longer effective.

My friends have been kinder, but they don't have to spend as much time with me.

I did bring the matter to the attention of the transplant doctor a couple weeks ago. He said it could be acid reflux, and prescribed Prilosec. His dismissal made me feel like my voice was outside his realm of interest. I'm almost done with my prescription, but nothing's changed. I had no other symptoms of acid reflux anyway. I'll be going back to Duke in a month for a complete evaluation of everything before I'm actually placed on the transplant list. I know I'm going to have to drink barium. I hope there's a good reason for that.

Meanwhile, if you need me, text, don't call.

Out of the Box: Haiku for the Christmas Season

A tree in a box,
Carried up a flight of stairs.
Open; assemble.

Hard to envision
A thing of beauty, aglow
With lights and baubles.

It just needs "fluffing."
A little here, some more there.
It's showing promise...

Wait--not finished yet.
This is not what I pictured.
Something must be done!

Voila! Masterpiece,
Save for lights and ornaments--
The best part of all.


Except for the people, of course. If not for My Awesome Husband Greg and My Imaginary Granddaughter Jordyn, it would all still be a tangle of branches in cardboard box in the basement. Thank you to my two favorite tree elves!

Coffee, Please: An Exercise in Writing

Prompt: "Describe five completely different types of people placing their order for coffee with the same waitress..." (From Escaping into the Open by Elizabeth Berg.) I'll just do one...


Her smile was genuine as she watched the waitress approach.

"Could I please have a cinnamon croissant and a cup of black coffee?"

She always voiced her order as if it were a question. She knew her wish was the waitress's command; that was her job. It just felt good to ask nicely. Most of her friends felt the same way--except for Liz, who always said "I want..." or worse--"Bring me..." She didn't mean to be rude; she was just being Yankee. Courtney (according to the name tag on her uniform) seemed to appreciate the gesture of friendliness, and responded in kind. She was smiling as she bustled away to take other orders.

Feeling connected to coffee lovers everywhere, Rose sat back and rearranged the hair at her temples, making sure the sparse strands hadn't receded too far from forehead. Then, reaching under her glasses, she touched her fingers to the corners of her eyes where goop had a tendency to accumulate. Next, she carefully traced her lips with her pinky, making sure no color had strayed outside the lines. Satisfied, she settled her face into what she hoped was a pleasant expression. No need to share her "resting bitch face" with these nice people. She had decided that this was going to be a good day.

Loving Christmas

You've seen this pic before, but still...

My mom loved Christmas. She always made sure our Christmases were beautiful, no matter how many other things she may have been juggling, no matter how much stress she might have been "managing." Like the year she took our live tree into the basement and spray-painted it white.

I'm sure Dad helped her lug it up and down the stairs, but he would have been grumbling the entire time about why the hell we needed a white tree. Never mind. I knew Mom had seen one somewhere and admired it. She'd said "I can do that," and then set out to do it.

I remember seeing it standing on the dirt floor of our Michigan basement. (Yes, that's a thing.) We didn't go down there much, but painting a Christmas tree was a special event. Mom made us go upstairs, though, when she started spraying. The next thing I remember was seeing it in the living room, where Dad put on the lights--with much direction--and Mom hung the string of pink glass beads. I thought those beads were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. They had been in Dad's family for years, and I always suspected that they'd once been red. Pink was better, though.

If we short people were allowed to help with the other decorations, I'm sure some rearranging was performed after we went to sleep. Mom was an artist, and in charge of her own masterpieces, as displayed in the photo.

Look at those dolls...the doll house...the buggies! (Oh, and the stuffed kangaroo for brother Mark. When we were kids, it was definitely better to be a girl.)

Mom grew up during the depression. Her father was an immigrant from Malta, and there were six kids in the family. She never received a doll for Christmas. She told us stories of getting new socks and underwear. That would explain her life-long passion for dolls. My sisters and I always had the most beautiful dolls she could find. Later, she became a doll artist herself, creating exquisite works of art in porcelain.

As a mother and grandmother, Mom enjoyed Christmas as much as the most enthusiastic kid. Later today, when I bring down the boxes of ornaments, I will be reminded many times over what the season meant to her. I will play her CD's and be surrounded by memories as I decorate our tree, hoping that she would be pleased.

Merry Christmas, Mom. And thank you.

Listing

(Photo by Dave Carson)

List, noun (1)--a record of a number of items; an enumeration.

Example: A national listing of patients in need of organ transplants, i.e., lungs. Ideally, there would be a coordinating list of organs available for transplant, and it would be a simple matter of matching Column A with Column B. Unfortunately, available organs don't remain listed for very long. Patients needing them sometimes do.

List, noun (2)--a leaning to one side, as of a ship.

Since I found out a three years ago that I was a potential candidate for lung transplant, my list has varied widely. First, there was a tip towards fear, then relief when tests revealed that I was "too early" to actually be listed. Sure, I had slowed down a little, but I could happily continue with things the way they were for a very long time, I thought. There was a gradual lean then towards acceptance, where I was able to hold steady until last week, when tests showed that my oxygen saturation has dropped. The disease is progressing.

List, verb intransitive--tilt, careen.

Then the phone call yesterday. They want to schedule a week-long evaluation, preparing me to be placed on the "List." I careened towards denial. I pounded on the door and rattled the knob, but no one would let me in.

Now I'm trying to reach trust. I will probably continue to list along the way, but I'm taking a breath and heading towards the horizon. Full speed ahead...

Old School

Misener School in Lapeer, Michigan, where I attended Kindergarten in 1957. Like me, the building has faded, but the memories surrounding it are as vibrant as ever. (Photo by Holly Smith)

As I grow older, I find my thoughts being pulled more and more to the time when I was young--or just younger. In my reveries, there are never any problems that I can't handle. I am strong and smart, and all of my powers are intact. Oh, and cute, too--I'm always cute. My hair looks great, and my outfits are awesome.

Now, most days are like this photo, reminding me that I'm not what I used to be. I need my glasses to find the buttonholes on my shirt, and I often start my sentences with "Stop me if I've already told you this." Then I will proceed to tell you anyway. The other day I picked up the alarm clock to see who was calling, lost the corkscrew between opening the bottle and taking my first sip, and realized at the end of the day that I'd been wearing my leggings backwards. It didn't even matter.

In the big picture, those are all just minor hiccups--life letting me know that I need to hold on a bit tighter. I'm sure tomorrow or the next day bring more bumps in the road. But you know what? I'm happy to be here with my memories. In Retrospect--where I love to dwell--I've had something to be happy about every single day that I've lived. I hope that won't be taken away from me, but if it is, I think I will still find a way to be happy. Does that make sense? More and more, I'm finding that I don't. Make sense, that is...

Waiting for the Bus

On warm mornings like this one, we wait in the garage with the door open, the driveway lit. It's still dark at 5:40. We're quiet. We would be quiet, the two of us, even if the the sun were shining and the neighbors were bustling. A 14-year-old girl doesn't have much to say to a 64-year old woman with a raspy voice. Thank goodness for her phone--her connection to everything that matters. I chatter softly and ineffectively, my efforts rewarded with unintelligible mumbles.

The bus arrives, always within a few minutes of its scheduled time. Occasionally a car or two is inconvenienced, having to stop for the flashing red lights, waiting as she ambles coolly down the driveway. I watch her step up onto the empty bus, wondering how the weight of her backpack doesn't cause her to fall backwards. She is a small girl; the bus is cavernous.

I watch until the driver has closed the door, always making sure her passenger is seated first. With a screech and a groan, the bus pulls away, and I turn to go back into the house. But a piece of my heart is on that bus. The piece I gave to her the day she was born, the piece that will always be hers.

Have a good day, my Sunshine.

Another Voice

Twenty-nine days into my thirty-day blogging non-commitment, and I am tired of the sound of my own voice. Today I'm using someone else's voice.

In 1974, Sy Safransky borrowed fifty dollars to start The Sun. He is still the editor and publisher, but, from the brief bio on the cover of the book, "He still gets up before sunrise to write in his journal, occasionally publishing excerpts in a section of the magazine called "Sy Safransky's Notebook."

Many Alarm Clocks is a collection of those exerpts from the last 15 years. My copy has dog-eared pages in nearly every chapter. I'd like to share a few of them with you...

From "The Day's First Mistake" Self-improvement is my drug of choice, more seductive than marijuana, more addictive than coffee. But the idea that I'll be happier once I become a "better" man is an illusion. When someone I love dies, will it comfort me to remember that I went to the gym three times this week instead of two? When I die, will my daughters be heartened to know I was at my ideal weight?

From "History Sits at the Bar" (post 9/11) Yes, it's true: America isn't the country she used to be; unhealthy habits take their toll. Tonight America sits in her mansion, brooding. Her hair is wild; her robe is soiled; the smell of death clings to her. She knows what they're saying: Britain and Germany--even France, that haggard slut--think they're better than she is. Why? Because they've accepted the fact, or so they insist, that their best days are behind them? "Well, fuck them," she thinks, "and fuck the lessons of history." She stubs out her cigarette, stands unsteadily, then squeezes into an outfit that's been too tight on her since the end of World War II. Soon she'll be walking out the door with that little spring in her step that was once the envy of the world.

From "The Shape of the Barrel"--First, a quote from Joseph Campbell: "Marriage is not a love affair. A love affair has to do with immediate personal satisfaction. Marriage is an ordeal; it means yielding, time and again. That's why it's a sacrament; you give up your personal simplicity to participate in a relationship. And when you're giving, you're not giving to the other person; you're giving to the relationship."

Then...

O God of Drowning Souls, come to our rescue. Norma and I have gone over Niagara Falls in a barrel, and still can't stop blaming each other. What is it this time? The shape of the barrel.

I still haven't finished the book. I'm in no hurry. A few paragraphs a day allows me to savor it.

No One to Blame But Myself

Earlier today I spent an hour writing a post called "Blaming Donald Trump." I left it posted for about an hour, then deleted it.

I remember being told "If you haven't got something nice to say, then don't say anything at all." Saying nothing at all has always been difficult for me, but I could usually get by with saying something else entirely. Lately, however, I have completely ignored that sage advice, saying whatever I felt, whenever I felt like saying it. Well, maybe not in person, but certainly on facebook, and in this blog.

But this morning it wasn't my intention to be nasty. I thought I had written a witty, self-deprecating explanation of why I've wanted to unfriend myself lately. Then, as I was showering, I was "convicted." Not only was my post not very funny, it deprecated a lot of other people besides myself. I realized some people would have already ready read it, but I couldn't wait to get back down here and hit "delete post." Of course once I've hit "publish," that's about as easy as unsaying something you hope no one heard.

Now I would like to give blame where blame is due. I'm taking full responsibility for being a person that I don't like very much. (It was tempting for me to type "for becoming" that person, but I realize that I haven't become anyone that I haven't always been.) I don't want to be that person anymore.

No, I'm not accepting any kind of bullying or discrimination as okay. I will not tolerate it when I see it, and I will do whatever I can to ensure that it doesn't happen. But instead of putting out any more of the kind of negativity that is choking our hearts, I want to make an effort to embrace the beautiful words of Michele Obama--"When they go low, we go high."

A lofty goal, I know, but goals are good to have, right?

Missed Calling

I think I missed my calling. I don't know why this never occurred to me before, but I think I was supposed to be an advice columnist. It became as clear as a bell this morning as My Awesome Husband Greg was reading to me from our local paper...

Dear Annie: My husband and I have been having an ongoing conflict about when to go to bed at night, as he insists we go to bed at the same time...

He insists? Honey, I wish you had written me before the wedding! The man is clearly an ass hat! Where does he get off insisting that you go to bed at a certain time?!

The writer then goes on to explain that she is a night owl, and sometimes wants to stay up until 11, either because she's not tired, or wants to watch something on TV. He, on the other hand, wants both of them to go to bed at 10 because that's the only way they can get enough sleep before the dog wakes them up at 6.

Okay, Sweetie. It's not like you're going clubbing after he goes to bed, right? I mean you're going to be right there in the den, reading or watching Netflix or something? Tell him the amount of sleep you need has nothing to do with him, and he needs to get over that crap right now!

But there's more...

He apparently whines that she wakes him up when she climbs into bed after him, and he can't get back to sleep.

Have you considered separate beds? Separate rooms? Separate houses?

I think this woman had already worked out the answer to her problem on her own. She just needed me to tell her she was right. Let's see how I did. Here's what "Annie" said:

Dear Tired: Don't let your husband treat you like a child. It sounds as if he has a bit of a controlling streak (ya think?) and it will only grow bigger if you take his demands lying down. (Clever--see what she did there--"lying" down?)

So Annie and I were on the same wavelength. She didn't use "ass hat," and she did suggest compromise--like going to bed early a couple of times a week just to appease the ass hat. I guess I could learn to be a little nicer. This was my first day on the job, after all.

The second letter was from someone wanting to know a good way to let visiting guests know they should limit their teeth-flossing activities to the bathroom, and not perform them in the TV room, leaving their used floss on the sofa. I mean. A good way? Annie suggested politely telling them that they should do that in the bathroom. That might work, but I prefer utilizing a "significant emotional event," such as walking into the room and screaming "Oh my God! What in the hell are you doing?! Were you raised by wolves?!" Just different ways of saying the same thing, right?

I definitely think I'm trainable.

Crime Scene

The shapely blond lay face-down on the hardened ground next to the parking lot. Rigor mortis was in and advanced stage. She was wearing clean white underwear--no holes or overstretched elastic--which would indicate that she had come from good breeding. Or at least that she listened to her mother. The only other garment to be found anywhere in the vicinity was a filmy pink something or other. Could have been a skirt or a pair of wings for all I could tell. She had both shoes on, but no stockings or socks. Her hair was clean, but slightly disarranged. Come to think of it, that might have been by design--best not mention that.

Closer examination showed no bruises or abrasions, no sign of blunt-force trauma or strangulation. I was able to pick her up and check her out completely--she was only about four feet tall and weighed just a few pounds--and put her back in the exact same position in which I had found her. (I know I shouldn't have done that, but I just had to see if I could.)

The only indication that she had been mistreated was the lack of warm clothing to ward off the chill night air. But who can tell what goes on behind closed doors? Perhaps there was an argument, and some kid decided to throw her out the window as the family car backed out of its space. Or maybe she jumped, thinking she could make it to the store and find something warm in the toy department.

Of course there's the always the chance that this was all just a tragic accident--that she was on the edge of the seat when the car door was opened, and fell to the ground without anyone noticing...I left her where she lay, hoping that was the case, and that the family would return to the scene in an effort to silence what surely would have been their child's deafening wails.

When I returned this morning, she had vanished.

Case closed. Sort of.

Inside My MRI

Okay, this looks like more like an optical illusion than what I saw from inside my MRI yesterday, so...well, just use your imagination, okay?

I wasn't dreading it, but I didn't expect to actually enjoy it. Of course I wasn't crazy about the two IV's I had to get stuck with first, and I got a little nervous when they told me about the drug that could make my heart race and cause shortness of breath--you know--like a workout with no work. And dye? Surely that couldn't be good. But it was a package deal. I didn't get to pick and choose.

I did, however, get to choose what music I wanted to hear during the procedure. I picked "classical."

I knew what the tube would look like, and that some people panicked when they were inside, but I wasn't anticipating any trouble with that. As soon as I saw the clean white sheets and stacked pillows, I knew I was going to be okay. Oh, yeah. One arranged under my knees, just so. One bunched up a little more under my neck...Yes, very nice. You mean all I have to do is lie perfectly still, with my arms by my sides and listen to beautiful music piped in through these fine headphones? Can do!

I had to take a few practice breaths, then try holding my breath on command, just to see if I could. No problem. Just as I was beginning to wish the whole thing could last longer than an hour, the cameras started whirring. Yes, they whirred. And sounded like air raid sirens. So much for falling asleep. I just let my mind wander.

I looked down at my feet, and the door and window that I could see beyond them. I bet I can draw the view from in here! I told myself. Then I started thinking that even with those noisy cameras, there were worse places I could choose to be. But why would I? Then, suddenly...

Missy! I felt my sister, Melissa, all around me. I sensed her voice inside of me--her calm, beautiful voice--saying "Don't worry, Silly. It's going to be all right." Even though she was my baby sister, she often told me that, and I always believed her. I felt tears coming, but they were happy tears because she was there. I stopped myself, though, because I didn't want to start coughing and blow the test. I knew she was proud of me for doing that. She never was one for crying.

The MRI ended and my day continued with tests and tests and more tests. And at the end of the day, the news I got was less than what I had hoped for. But I'm going to try to remember what Missy said. Because whatever happens, whatever is coming, it's going to be all right. It always is. Thanks, Missy. I love knowing you're still there.

Thanksgiving 2016--A Photo Blog

The house was clean enough. The extra leaf was in the table, and the olives and pickles and nuts were on the counter for snacking. We were ready.

We didn't fix a turkey this year. That, along with all the usual fixings--plus deviled eggs--was provided by Awesome Greg's Awesome Sister Dawn and her Equally Awesome Son Brad. They top my list of "Thankfuls" this year. In the spirit of the season, however, I did pull out this pillow that I made from a child's place mat years ago...

...and this paper bag gobbler made by Jordyn when she was in Kindergarten.

Meagan brought a photo-worthy platter of roasted vegetables, and the much-loved green bean casserole.

When we couldn't eat any more, the table was cleared (Thank you, Awesome Greg!) and the games came out.

Taylor and Jordyn--showed up for dessert. We had two pies, but Taylor brought her homemade cupcakes just in case.

More games and hilarity--i.e., Taylor playing Googly Eyes...

...and Greg acting out "putting out a fire"

and "skydiving"

during a rousing game of Heads Up.

There was face time with Daddy, who was in Tennessee this year, until someone's phone suddenly died. Sorry, Jason.

Oh, and just so you'll believe me when I tell you that I was there, too, I took a picture of myself...

It's been a day for Thanksgiving, and I am thankful indeed. I hope you all made some memories that will keep you smiling until next year, too.

Duke Day

Today was Duke Day--the day My Awesome Husband Greg and I spent at Duke Medical Center so I could have my pulmonary function tested, and some other fun stuff.

We checked in at 7:30 for an 8:30 cardiac MRI. Quite a procedure, especially the getting-ready part. How fortunate that we hadn't needed all the time we'd allowed for potential pre-holiday traffic tie-ups.

From things I'd heard, I was apprehensive about the MRI, but it turned out to be quite enjoyable. And I now know for certain that I am not claustrophobic. I was a little concerned when I heard the part about holding my breath, imagining those obnoxious pulmonary tests where they make you exhale until you have no air, and then yell "Hold your breath!" But instead, I was instructed by a soft voice in my ears, accompanied by classical music, to inhale, exhale and then stop breathing--but only for a few manageable seconds. The obnoxious kind would come later, but this was a fine way to a begin a long day of being stuck and prodded.

Then there was blood work, a chest x-ray and the dreaded breathing tests. The finale was a consultation with Dr. Ali from the Transplant Team, where I received the day's results.

I really don't know the best way to tell you this, so I put it on a shirt...

At first glance, the MRI showed my heart function is normal. The chest x-ray indicated no new scar tissue. As the good doctor pointed out, there is so much scar tissue in both lungs, there simply isn't room for any more, so I no longer have to worry about that. My lung function is still holding at 39 percent. That's also good news. But here's the glitch: My oxygen saturation has dropped a little. Dr. Ali seems to feel like it's time to discuss actually putting me on the transplant list. Not that anything is likely to change within the next few months, but we should start thinking about. I guess he means in some new way, since I've been thinking about it for quite a while now.

I'm not panicking. I to back to see the Pulmonary Team in January. Meanwhile, I feel good, can do almost everything I want, and get out of doing a lot of stuff I don't.

And tomorrow is Thanksgiving! I wish you all a full and joyous Holiday with your families and loved ones! I love you all!

Praying the Blues

Lord, I'm feeling kind of blue...

A couple of days ago, I got annoyed after reading like the tenth complaint on a friend's timeline about how us whiny liberals need to suck it up and move on. (You know, Lord, how I hate self-righteousness, being as how I'm rarely right myself.) Well, in trying to be clever--you know how I do--I posted a status about how I wasn't unfriending people because their words offended me, or because I thought they didn't have a right to say them. Rather, I was unfriending them because they were pissing me off.

On the heels of that, I unfriended the guy. Although I've long admired him for his wit and intelligence, his arrogance was now all I could see.

Feeling powerful, a few minutes later, when I saw yet another post criticizing Obama, another one got the axe. I was rollin', Lord!

Later still, in response to a video I had posted, a friend described liberals as "snarky, self-absorbed, dishonest, hypocritical and utterly intolerant." Pissed me off. Fired him, too.

But here's the thing, Lord...

Fueled by the few "likes" I'd received for posting "Buh-bye" after the guy's hate-filled post, I realized that, since I'd unfriended him, he wouldn't be able to see my clever farewell. Now, you know what a dick I can be, Lord...I switched my privacy settings on that post to "public." Sure enough, he saw it. First he said he was crushed. Then we got to arguing. He tried to say his comments hadn't been personal, but who did he think was reading them? Well, anyway, we argued back and forth a bit. He self-righteously pointed out that I was being immature and that he wasn't.

Now, as you know, I didn't sleep well last night. Shall we say the Holy Spirit convicted me? Wasn't I being just as self-righteous as the people I'd been striking from my friends list? I know I have the right to choose my friends, but was my changing the privacy setting on that one post maybe just a little mean and petty? (Remember how I tried to rationalize it by saying, But I want it "public" so more people can see the video? I knew you wouldn't buy that, Lord.)

Suddenly I remembered why we'd become friends in the first place. I woke up this morning thinking I might have to write him a note asking his forgiveness.

Then I logged on and saw another snarky attack he'd made on someone else I like. Our unfriendship shall stand.

Guess I'm still a work in progress, Lord. But damn, I really don't feel very good about this. Just sayin'.

Amen.

Scattered Blessings

This Thanksgiving, my blessings will be scattered. Meagan will be here, but Charlie and Joe will be in Nebraska with Joe's parents. Dominic and Gigi are going to Charleston to celebrate with Gigi's parents. Although it has occasionally happened that one or two of my siblings could be here for the holiday, not this year. But we will have Greg's sister, Dawn and her son, Brad for which I am truly thankful. The final headcount is not yet in; there may be two or three more. Plenty of blessings to count--including the ones who are now missing and deeply missed--when we gather 'round the table. We'll just have to reach a little farther to count them.

I long for those Michigan Thanksgivings when we were young and the kids were babies--or still just little stars twinkling in our futures. Thanksgiving Day was hectic and exciting then. Sure, there were preparations--I remember one time having to shovel snow from the driveway before we could leave--but most of the work fell on our moms. They were the professionals.

Our day would be split into two parts, the first part usually going to my family. All of us would descend on Mom and Dad simultaneously. We were a big bunch, but there was always enough food for us to begin eating the moment we arrived, continuing to pick at the turkey and pies even while the dishes were being washed. There were barns and cats and ponds and ducks and hills and dirt roads--endless outdoor options for the guys who weren't interested in football. My sisters and I would gather in the kitchen, talking and eating and drinking and--I hope--helping Mom. We laughed a lot. Life was still ahead of us, and it all looked good. We felt like it would always be that way.

As the sun was moving toward its evening setting, we would usually be the first to leave. Next stop: Greg's mom's for more turkey and pie. And conversation and laughter. And love. Plenty of love in both places. You could feel it and see it and hear it making its presence known above all the noise and busyness of the day. You could even smell it--it smelled like turkey.

There will be love at our gathering this year, too. And delicious food and conversation and laughter. There will be wine and football and games around the table after dinner. It's supposed to be 70 degrees here, so no snow will be shoveled. But a Frisbee or Nerf toy may be tossed. Our guest list will most likely include Banjo and George, who will come with Meagan. They're rowdy and messy (like all boys), but they love our yard, so they will be welcome.

At then end of the day, I will be exhausted from counting all my blessings. But I will be happy. I love Thanksgiving, once it finally arrives.

Willy Nilly

On this day last year, 20 days into my (non)commitment to a month of daily blogging, I had nothing to say, so I wrote a "random thoughts" post. Doing it again makes it a tradition, right? (Also, nothing says "I meant to do that" like doing it again, as I always like to say.)

I read instruction manuals, but I never send in warranty cards.

I'm drawn to self-help books, but before I can finish one, I become overwhelmed at the amount of work to be done and put it back on the shelf.

If you want to be "unique," to stand out in the crowd, that's fine. But then you don't get to complain about being misunderstood.

I've always believed that I can do whatever I want. I've just always been lazy.

If you discriminate against one group of people, but not another, I suppose you should be applauded for being discriminating in your discrimination.

I stop and ask directions. Again and again. Until, finally, I write it down.

My extreme dislike of cleaning up has probably kept me from taking part in activities that I might otherwise find enjoyable. Like painting and cooking.

I enjoy watching TV almost as much as I do reading books, but I don't like to admit that.

If you find yourself wondering, Is she trying to be funny? the answer is probably Yes.

I love to draw, so I do. I have been underwhelmed by the praise I've received.

In my mind, I am a great dancer, but only a mediocre singer.

I am inexplicably proud of the fact that I've now posted 25 consecutive blogs, if you count the last five I posted in October. But you probably shouldn't, because the one on the 30th was actually a "guest blog," written by my friend, Sue. Still, 21 in a row!

As I also like to always say, "Tomorrow we get to start all over again!"

Mission Improbable

Good morning, Kate. Your mission, should you decide to accept it, is to get your house clean and ready for company on Thursday, which as you know, is Thanksgiving Day.

What?! That's impossible, and you know it! I've been threatening to get this house clean for ten years now, and it hasn't happened yet. What makes you think I can get that mission accomplished in five days?!

Look, I didn't come here to argue with you. I'm simply offering you a challenge--accept it or not.

Now you look! I never accept anything without arguing. You must have a reason for coming to me today with this preposterous offer. Convince me.

Convince you? Okay. How's this...You have five days before the official beginning of the Holiday Season. Believe it or not, some people are using today to haul out the Christmas decorations. I'm not asking you to do that. I'm just suggesting that you might want pull up those bootstraps, get out of your chair and wave a dust rag around for a bit. Thanksgiving is happening, and there's nothing you can do about it. But if you choose not to accept my mission, you will have people coming into your house, bringing food and fun and feelings of good will toward wine one another. Do you want them to have to wipe cobwebs off the stove before they can heat up their offerings? To watch them pry dishes from the guck inside your refrigerator to make room for their veggie trays and dessert toppings? And although they'll probably be too polite to say anything, you'll know why they're sneezing and coughing--no one's lungs are equipped to deal with that much dust in one day...How am I doing?

Okay. I'm trying to keep an open mind. Would this mission include cleaning the bathrooms?

I never said you couldn't delegate. Isn't that why you have an Awesome Husband Greg?

Hmmm. Can we say that I accept your mission with conditions--reluctantly? Like I'll try to get some stuff done if Awesome Greg is watching me. And I get to drink enough wine to make me forget how far behind I'm falling on my Netflix shows. How about if I just do the dusting and light moving--like CD's and books and stuff--and Awesome can do anything that involves using soap and water and heavy equipment--like vacuum cleaners?

You mean like Mission Possible, But Not Very Probable?

Yeah, like that.

Okay. I guess I can work with that. But remember...As always, should you or any member of your force be caught or killed, the Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions. This tape will self-destruct in five seconds. Good luck, Kate.

Meager

I am the worst. And the worst part of being the worst--the part that makes it the worst--is that I'm afraid that an ugly precedent has now been set...

It came close to happening a few years ago when, instead of getting a full-sized Christmas tree and carting boxes and bins of ornaments down from the attic, we bought a small Norfolk Island Pine, hung a few simple ornaments on its branches and set it in front of a window.

"It's Christmas!" I declared.

"That's bullshit!" answered my kids.

And now, Halloween.

I have two boxes of Halloween decorations--gourds carved like jack-o'-lanterns with little lights inside, witches, candles, a glittery tree adorned with tiny pumpkins--even a Dracula windsock to hang outside. But this year I did not decorate. I brought the boxes downstairs and set them beside the coffee table two weeks before Halloween. Every night for a week, I promised that tomorrow was the day I was going to decorate. Eventually, I stopped promising. The day before Halloween I bought a string of orange lights from the "junk" bin at Target and hung them on a small Christmas tree that hadn't made it back up to the attic last year. I pulled out a few pumpkins--the ones without faces, so they could transition into Thanksgiving decorations--and arranged them on the mantle.

No one said a thing. I don't think they even noticed. But I did. The day after Halloween, I pulled out my twisted paper pilgrim and placed her beside my pumpkins.

"It's Autumn!" I said to myself.

"Big deal!" I answered.

I felt sad. I remember when things were different. A lot more stuff used to get decorated around here!

Oh, well. Christmas is coming. Maybe I can make up for it then!

From Mourning to Morning

In darkness, I went to my bed.
"We'll know by morning," I said.
Sleep came slowly.

In shadows, I slid to the floor.
Softly, I opened the door.
Surely she'd won...

Groggily, I turned on TV.
"Trump Wins." The words bludgeoned me.
We had it wrong!

In mourning for what we had lost,
I glumly considered the cost.
What had we done?

And then...

With the morning, came a faint light,
Even though I still felt the night.
There must be hope.

A phrase started then in my head.
We're stronger together it said.
Words she gave us!

And here's the part that doesn't rhyme...

I tried to convince myself that this would somehow be all right. In the past, I've been an advocate of If you don't like something, change it. If you can't change it, change the way you think about it. It usually works. But not this time. What we can't change are the all of the ugly, venomous words that have spewed out of our president elect's mouth. The hatred in his soul has entered my soul, making my stomach roil and my head hurt. Could I possibly change the way I thought--felt--about those words?

The answer is No!

I honestly tried. I told myself he deserved a chance, a new start. Maybe he could change...

His prospective cabinet choices indicate that he will not change.

He will be our next president, barring the miracle I'm still praying for. We will owe him our support, I suppose. When we can give it. However, we can never support policies that discriminate against any members of our society. Too many have fought and died to make this country great. We have a debt to them, and to those who are now frightened--rightfully--of his bullying tactics. We must stand with and protect our nation and its people--all of its people--in any ways that we can.

We can move on, but we cannot "get over it." We don't want to!