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...