Power Port

Friday, July 24, 2009

Power Port

My Dad often brags about being "hermetically sealed." As in: never been operated on. The parts inside his body stay inside. The rest of the world stays outside.

This is an exaggeration, because blood has been drawn from him on occasion. But it's a life-affirming fiction for him, and one he uses to stupefy others.

For instance, one doctor looked at a mole on the side of his torso and recommended having it removed. Dad said, "It's holding an important part on the inside. If I take it off, something will fall out."

I am now guilty of gross violation of this "hermetically sealed" standard. It's not enough that I went bionic in October by having a plate screwed to my leg. Now, I'm sporting a Power Port.

Yes. It's really called that.

My very own valve. Stuff can be shot in. Stuff can be sucked out. I do not know what the Power Port has over a regular port, but I'm glad I got the best, baby.

And I like what having a port says to the world: "I see the coming year and the liters of fluid that will be pumped into my body and I am so OK with it, that I'm going to have a valve installed. So bring it on. It's never been easier to flood my system with drugs than it is right now."

My shoulder is still very sore from the procedure, and it's swollen, despite a lot of ice packs. But I'm betting that the discomfort now will be outweighed by the convenience and pain-savings of later when I don't have a nurse poking me with needles.

This latest episode has been very helpful in identifying something that has been a little troubling so far: this whole warrior language. Specifically, that many people refer to me (and others in my position) as warriors.

I know that people say it with the best of intentions, and my beef is not personal. I am not bothered by the people. I am just uncomfortable with the title.

Why? Because most of my appointments have been in an Army hospital. The day of my surgery, I saw a guy in the waiting room wearing a prosthetic foot.

And Mayfield mentioned that he was briefly assisting with an operation on a guy who'd take a round to his hip while in Afghanistan.

And the soldier in the pre-op bay across from me had the following words tattooed on his forearm: EXPECT NO MERCY.

These people are warriors. These people volunteered to serve their country, they fought a battle they didn't have to fight, and, we hope, they killed some of the enemies of our country.

I did not volunteer for cancer.

I don't have a choice about whether to fight it.

When the cancer cells die, it won't be because I fought them, it'll be because I let one doctor cut them out of me and let another shoot poison into my port.

My role in this is to try to function as well as I can while my body takes hit after hit after hit. And it seems that wearing the title "warrior" lessens a term of respect we all hold in high regard for warriors in uniform.

You may not agree with me, but you can understand my discomfort, right?

***

But then came this last procedure, and I learned something about why we want to use the term "warrior" to describe a person like me.

The day before the procedure, I had to go to the pre-op offices and do labs and paperwork.

The nurse who met with me was a little Filipino woman. She started talking and I recognized her at once. When I came out of my surgery a month ago, the nurse attending me kept talking, talking, talking, asking me question after pestering question even though I had a mask on and couldn't speak well through it.

She was right in my ear. So loud and so annoying, I kept thinking, "Make this woman shut up."

When it was time to send me off to ICU, she told me where I was going and that it had been a pleasure taking care of me and she grabbed my hand. I felt so bad, having thought such mean things towards her, that I squeezed her hand back. You know, to end on a good note. And I didn't mention her in my "Etherized" post because she had meant well. No need to defame her.

Here she was, across the desk from me, telling me that I seemed familiar. Ah yes. "You have surgery one month ago!" Uh huh. I recognized her voice, I told her. And smiled.

She checked the paperwork, and my surgery came back to her. I could see it in her face. Then she started sighing, "Oh. . . Oh. . .right. How you doing now? You OK?"

I nodded. Wanted her to get on with the pre-op run-down.

"Any breast cancer in your family?" she asked. This wasn't what she needed to ask for the form. I told her, "Nope."

"You so young! 34! You take hormones?"

I shook my head. This is a no-no. Trying to find the "cause" of someone's cancer. You'd be surprised how this pisses cancer patients off.  "No," I amplified, to save her more questions, "No hormones, no drugs of any kind, no smoking, I nursed my babies and I'm not obese."

There. All the categories that would have increased my odds of developing cancer. And I beat the odds anyway.

Then she said, "No, you very thin. Very pretty. . ." and she let that trail off and that's when I realized it: This was pity. She was pitying me.

Then she said, with her pitying voice, "How old are your babies?"

Ugh! Asking about my children? Of course I started crying. Damn. It's much easier to leave my kids out of this as much as possible.

So then, having made me cry, she stepped into the compassionate nurse role and said this and that about treatment and everything would be OK and blah, blah, blah. All coated in pity.

This is when I realized that people use the warrior metaphor because we recognize that warriors are not pitied. They are admired and encouraged. But they are in a position of power, which is strength, and not powerlessness, which we pity.

Yeah, given a choice between being called a warrior and a boo-hoo-for-Amy chorus, I'll risk disrespecting real warriors and wear their title.

In the meantime, let's try to think of a title that does what "warrior" does, but is, in fact, a better description of what I'm actually doing:

I'm permitting onslaught to by body in order to save that body,

and I'm doing it in faith that God permits only His best plans for me, regardless of how good or bad they look to my eyes

and I'm trying to conduct all the things I can control in such a way that when the cancer is all gone and I remain, my life and the lives of those around me will somehow be better off for the experience.

What shall we call a person who does that?

Hailed Into Service

Last week's riddle:

300 of me
from goal to goal
I have an arch
A pad, a sole.



The answer:  a foot

The victor: Xochitl, who submitted by e-mail.


This week's riddle:


Hailed into service
Morning, noon, and night
I mark the feet with meters
My signal is a light.

Quill

(BTW, for two days in a row now, I have had my posts scheduled to post in the morning at 5:00 AM, but blogger hasn't posted them.  I've double checked the posting date and times and have no idea what's going wrong.  Hmm.  Hoping for tomorrow. . .)

Gemma reported from school, earlier this year, that her teacher had brought in a porcupine quill to show the students. 

At first mention of this, I was sad.  Gemma used to say "pokeypine," and she believed she was correct, and we never corrected her. 

Kids lose these things.  One by one.


She had a whole story to tell me about this quill.  I can't quote her exactly.  A child's monologue is almost inimitable. 

But the gist is that the quill was really long and Mrs. Nagel let the kids pass it from lap to lap and it was on a towel and she said not to touch it with her fingers, but this one girl, Elizabeth, the one who always wears dresses to school, touched it with her finger and it got stuck.

So she had to go to the nurses office and the nurse pulled it out and it was really bloody and they put this big puffy bandage on her.

"But," and here is where I can quote Gemma, because this is the punchline today, this is the part I loved and that I want to remember because this is how an 8-year-old thinks of these things. . .

"But," she concluded, "Elizabeth was actually kind of lucky because Mrs. Nagel let her keep the quill."

The Shepherd

I mention Awana often.  And how we help in Cubbies.  It all probably sounds kind of. . .cute.  Like it's some kind of program we are kind-hearted enough to serve in to keep the kids entertained with something wholesome. 

But it's not "cute."  It is a really, really big deal for our kids and for us as parents and, increasingly, for us as a married couple.

We take it seriously.  We really believe we are entrusted with these pre-schoolers and we really believe that what we teach them on Sunday afternoon has the potential to grow into something big and important in their lives. 


So.

This past Sunday, the story-time was about the verse, 'The Lord is my shepherd. . ."  Possibly one of the most famous verses ever.  Top 10, at least. 

I wanted to teach the kids a little bit about what a shepherd does for his sheep.  This is something people of Bible times knew very well.  But nowadays. . .

A book was written years ago titled something like A Shepherd's Reading of Psalm 23 in which the shepherd-author described his relationship to his flock.

I boiled this down for the kids.

I took one volunteer at a time to come to the middle of the circle and pretend to be my sheep as I stood with a scarf banded on my head and a tall bamboo pole as my crook.

A shepherd leads a sheep to green pasture.  (The first girl crawled to an area and pretended to eat.)

A shepherd protects a sheep from raging water and leads him to quiet waters where he can drink.  (The second kid--well, you get the point.)

A shepherd uses his staff to lead the sheep gently.  (Third kid. . .)

Here's where I decided to get clever:

A shepherd also uses his staff as a rod, because sometimes the sheep need to be whacked to be sufficiently deterred from danger.  The Lord disciplines.  We don't like to think about it.  We don't like to say that out loud.  But it's true.  The Lord uses a rod, sometimes.  As when we don't respond to the gentle leading.

The fourth kid --  No, not really.  I didn't strike any children with my rod.  I told them about it, though. 

Finally, the shepherd restores a sheep when, because of its massive wool, it falls over.  The sheep cannot right itself back to hooves.  The shepherd must pick it up and make it to stand again.  e.g. The Lord restores my soul.

It was fun acting that one out with little Roman who lay on his back with arms and legs in the air, wondering where this was going.

And then review.  We're all sheep.  What does the Good Shepherd do for us?  They all seemed to know the answers.  This was satisfying. 

One day, when they are older than 3 or 4 or 5 and know a little something about what it means to fall and be helpless to help themselves, maybe they will remember that the Shepherd wants to and has the powers to restore them to their feet.

See?  I take this story-time seriously.  I really want it to count for eternity.

***

Much later:


Over dinner, I asked Josh, "What's one thing a shepherd does?"

Joshua answered, "He uses his staff to beat the sheep."

Stanchley

[The following is a true story, but I have changed the names.]

I used to work for the Forestry Department of my hometown during the summers of my college years.

The term "Forestry" sounds grand and Romantic.  It conjures images of swarthy men inspecting the scat of moose along game trails to determine the health of an animal population.

But in Elmhurst, there are no forests.  There are only suburban parkways, public green spaces, a median strip on York Road, trees in front of houses that needed care.

And there was Rick Stanchley, among others.  Rick was either stoned all the time, or wont to speak as though he were stoned all the time.  He drank coffee from a beat-up plastic travel mug--at least a quart of coffee each morning.  He smoked cigarettes.  So many, in fact, that his side lip seemed to have a permanent indent where the cig sat all day long.

Rick hated loud noises.  He'd reach in and turn the key of your truck engine if he needed to talk to you at your window.  Turn this damn thing off! 

He'd scowl when the part-timers returned at the end of the day and--rowdy kids!--shuffled in, joking, laughing, on our way to the tool shed to hang the shovels up--Would you all just shut up?!  Man, I mean why do you have to be so loud?

[That's what first captured my imagination about him: how he said, Man.  He made it sound like about 5 cuss words wrapped up in one modest syllable.]

We part-timers figured this distaste for noise was related to his experience in the Vietnam War--he always wore his Vet ball cap--but I got to know him one summer and learned that he had served at a supply base and had not seen combat.

"Was it ever terrifyingly loud on your base?" I asked him, trying to get to the bottom of it.

He looked at me with his beautiful--no, gorgeous eyes--they were pale baby blue, the color people wear fake contacts for--but eyes that were inside a face of leather, creased through, with gray whiskers and long, straggly gray hair.  A full 15 years beyond his age, in fact, when I finally learned he was only 42. 

He looked at me with those impossible eyes and said, "What are you talking about?  It's terrifyingly loud almost everywhere almost all the time."

The other thing Rick hated was traffic. 

He was living and working in Elmhurst!  What did he ever see of traffic?

But he'd be grinding out a stump (with the stumper--the loudest machine in the Department) and he'd stop after only a second or third car had gone by to say, "Would you look at the traffic?"

One day, circumstances collided in Rick's world. 

He was driving the big ole cherry picker truck, and was waiting in the middle of the intersection at West and St. Charles, ready to turn left through the green light.

The on-coming line of cars on West never let up for him to make that turn.

"Would you look at this?" he said to Jeff, his partner that day who sat in the passenger's seat.  Or maybe Rick was just remarking.  "Would you look at this traffic?"

The on-coming cars didn't stop.  West Avenue!  It was not even a through-street!  Why so many cars?

"This is unbelievable," Rick said.  "I mean, I don't even believe this."  Jeff didn't say anything.

The light turned yellow.  Rick sat up, ready to turn.  But the cars kept coming.

"What?. . .What is with this traffic?"  Confusion turned to anger.

Then the light turned red.  The cars kept coming.

Anger turned to fury.

Rick rolled down the window of the cheery picker, he shook his hand out, giving each driver the finger.  He pulled the string of the air horn at them, scourging them with blasts that covered over all his own cussing.  Oh, that traffic.

Then it stopped.  The intersection cleared.  He turned left onto St. Charles.

Moments later, he rolled his window back up.

Moments after that, he said to Jeff, silent and stalwart, "Could you believe that traffic?"

Jeff nodded and said, "Yeah, Rick.  That was a funeral."

Great in the Eighties

This woman's moves are not all that impressive.

Besides, women compete on uneven bars, not parallel bars.

Wait.  What's that?  She's how old?  86?

Oh.  Well done, ma'am.




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Denver

I'm writing on Friday morning, and scheduling this post to greet you on Saturday.

We're headed for Denver in just a few moments.  Bryan, to have fun with the kids.  And I to attend 2 more political things.

The biggest thrill of this weekend, I'm sure, will be swimming in the hotel pool.  What is it about hotel rooms that kids like so much?. . .  


Have a great weekend, I shall endeavor to give an entertaining report.

When the Bandages Came Off

[I have editted this post somewhat from its original.  Trimmed it down a bit.  But I haven't added any content to it.]

Thursday, July 9, 2009

When the Bandages Came Off

The morning I checked out of the hospital, it was time to remove the wraps from surgery and have a look to see how the wound was healing. Mayfield had warned me the day before, saying that some women don’t look at all and that others are desperate to see it ASAP.

 

As for me, I thought of the matter as relentlessly inevitable. I had seen nothing with my own eyes, so on some level I still looked like the woman of my wedding photos. But I was in the ICU of an Army hospital. Surely something must have happened.

***
I sat at the edge of the bed. Mayfield, his nurse, the ICU nurse and Bryan were all in the room. But when the bandages came off and I looked down, there was nothing in the room.

There are very, very few times when I am not thinking something. This was one of those times. There was nothing but sadness. I realized from almost outside of myself that I was in the midst of a resigned weeping.

I vaguely heard Mayfield say that it was going to be all right, that I was a warrior. I get his metaphor, of course. He’s an Army doctor. He’s a West Pointer. He’s worked on real warriors in Iraq and Afghanistan. It makes perfect sense for him to bring a martial frame—the talk of enemies and battle plans and strategies—to the entire cancer event. But none of this feels like fighting. It feels like something to endure, and to be led through.

I also vaguely realized that Mayfield was re-fastening my gown, and then from there it was a glowing report of how "great" everything looked.

 

But I could not look away.

That First Look is burned into memory. There are a few experiences that, when I re-visit them and remember them, make me cry all over. Very likely, this one will be among them. 

 

***

 

I’ve been wondering lately whether I would choose this course for myself.  This past Spring I did a study of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount. It was life-changing. And Jesus says near the start of it, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”

There was a real question assumed by this statement.  The question is this: 

Amy, Do you really want to see God?  

 

If seeing God work in your life, and change your heart, and touch those around you requires circumstances that include seeing your own body carved, do you really want to see Him?

 

Pontius Pilate and Herod come to mind. Those two buffoons of the Gospel accounts.

 

Pilate was simply uninterested in Jesus. Here he was, the Roman official, assigned to the backwater province of Palestine. Probably had ambitions of finishing up his tour there so he could go back to Rome to be a power broker, maybe even a senator.

He (and those before, and those after him) famously took up residence in Jerusalem once a year, at the time of Passover because that was the only time the Jewish city caused the Empire any angst. What would all those Jews do, all gathered together? Would that religious celebration of theirs ignite a rebellion one of these days?

 

So, the Prefect from Rome would show up with all his guards and a heavy presence, and discourage the feast from becoming anything more than their yearly ritual. And when, inexplicably, these people brought before him a guy who seemed innocuous, maybe a little perplexing, what did Pilate do? Did he want to do anything more than handle this sudden inconvenience?

Not so much. His own wife had had disturbing dreams the night before, and something about Jesus recommended itself to Pilate enough that he’d “wash his hands” of the whole affair—that is, Pilate had a clue there was something unique about Jesus—but when he was actually in the hot seat himself, what did Pilate ask?

 

Did he really want to see who Jesus was?

No. He gave a half-hearted effort at questioning the prisoner and when Jesus told Pilate He came to testify to the truth, do you know what Pilate said?

 

“What is truth?”

 

Kind of like, “Yeah, right.  'Truth.' How quaint."

Was Pilate alive a couple decades later, when The Way became big enough to capture the attention of the Empire?

 

Did he comment over drinks with friends that he, in fact, had been the one to crucify the guy who started the whole annoyance?

 

Who’d have thought? Of all the hundreds—maybe even thousands—of men he’d had executed, who could have guessed that this one particular, humble Jewish guy would be so slow to die away?

 

Was Jesus, for Pilate, only ever an intellectual curiosity?

And then there was Herod. “When Herod saw Jesus, he was greatly pleased, because for a long time he had been wanting to see him. From what he had heard about him, he hoped to see him perform some miracle. He plied Jesus with many questions, but Jesus gave him no answer.”

That’s one thing this last month has shown me: Sure, I’m no Pilate. But to what extent am I a Herod?

 

It’s easy to go to church and sing worship songs and pray for others and listen to other people's stories about God’s miracles in their lives—it’s easy to be religious.

 

Do I want to see the signs and wonders of God? Sure!  Who doesn't love a miracle?

But Jesus has no answer for the heart that seeks after the signs and wonders.

If seeing God work in my life means surgery and a forever-sad moment of the First Look,  do I still want to see Him?

Would you?

300 of Me

Last week's:


I couldn't do the job
All others of my like have done
Victory over me meant
Eternal victory won.


Answer: Jesus' grave.

But Amy (and Melodie on Facebook) both wrote in with "death," and I don't see anything in the riddle that makes that answer wrong.

Amy's answer clocked in earlier than Melodie's, so, to Amy goes this victory.

Leslie didn't even make a play this time.  (!)



This week's riddle:

300 of me
from goal to goal
I have an arch
A pad, a sole.

Easter Eggs

Does anyone know how this whole thing even got started?  The coloring of eggs?

Decorating eggs, yes, I know there is some long-ago old-world-y thing that must have happened.  Faberge an all that.

But when did it go mass-market?  When did we put this craft into the hands of children?

***

We were always a Paas family when I was a child.  One wire dipper per box, one box bought each Easter.  We never managed to keep track of the dippers from year to year.

One time we figured out that white crayons work as well as the "magic" clear crayon in each box, and that let to much artistic innovation.

When did Paas first figure out the little tablets that dissolve in vinegar?  That must have been the year egg-coloring went Big.

***

You're probably wondering, "What kind of coloring other than the tablets?  Weren't we all Paas families?"

The answer is "no," The McKellars were not.  They did that other kind of thing. . .some sort of sandy dye is in the bag, you put the egg in and shake it around.  The egg comes out marbled.

They were a latest-and-greatest type family.  Every block had one, right?  When Atari was topped by Coleco, guess who had Coleco. 

I remember thinking, 'This egg-shaking stuff must be cool."

And it did make a beautiful effect.

Not too much skill required, though.  I notice that the shake-stuff is no longer around.

***

Mom always required that we dye an egg solid in each color.

This was unreasonable.  "I think they're the prettiest," she'd say.  She was right.  Is right.  A solid-colored egg is lovely.

But we're working with a limited supply of eggs here, Mom.  You can't make us waste 8 of them on solid-colors.

She could, though.  And she did. 

***

We did all the tricks we thought were our own ideas but then grew up to realize that everyone was working with the same bag of tools.

There was the dip-part-way, flip-over-to-dip-in-a-different-color.

There was the dip-it-in-gradually-so-the-color-would-dye-in-different-shades.

The this-isn't-working-out-like-I-thought-it-would-so-submerge-it-in-a-darker-color-to-cover-it-up-and-go-from-there.

The write-in-"magic"-crayon-and-dip-only-to-learn-that-your-writing-or-artist's-touch-is-not-great-when-you're-using-clear-crayon-on-a-white-egg-and-see-what-you're-doing.

My brother had a unique one once.  Genuinely unique:  He bit into it with his incisor and used a fine point felt tip point to write a monologue from the auctioneer who auctioned off this tooth-print.

But my brother didn't actually dye the egg, so I don't know that this counts.

***

Gramma Gemma came to Easter supper with a special collection one year:  Eggs that she had dyed in liquids like tea, and coffee and cranberry juice, and then etched with a knife.

Beautiful patterns of vines trailing around from top to bottom, another with diamonds striping the surface like a delicate, European harlequin. 

She had not blown them out.  Neither had she hard-boiled them.  I'm deducing this now, over 20 years later, because what I know is that we made little paper rings to hold them up and we set them on a shelf in our basement.

What?  We weren't going to eat them, for goodness sake!

Joshua's hard boiled egg from Cubbies last year found its way under our front passenger's seat and that began to stink about a month later.  So, hard boiled eggs go rotten and smell bad.

But Gramma's eggs couldn't have been hard boiled because they never started to stink.

They were not blown out because after about a year, we dared to pick one up and shake it.  A definite rattle from within.  Felt like a hard, small ball inside a sturdy shell. 

At first, we didn't want the eggs to fall off the shelf because we didn't want to destroy Gramma's artistry.  But eventually, the greater reason was that we feared the smell if one were ever broken.

Whatever happened to those eggs?. . .


***

We boiled 48 for coloring and after the kids did 18 each, they still would have been happy to color more.

(We eat a lot of hard-boiled egg whites, so there was method in that mad number.)


Bryan and I did some, too.  I, ever trying to make one really beautiful, but my plans never fleshing out, and Bryan, up to his standard M.O. in using his magic crayon (we have several from years past) to write things like "BPP (heart) ALP."

I did not require any solids. 

The biggest thrill, again, was combining the dyes after the eggs were done--a grand free-styling color-wheel. 

***

Josh asked, in the midst of his coloring, "What do we do with Easter eggs?"

We eat them.

He was appalled. 

When you're 5, and can't remember back to the time you dyed eggs at age 4, or 3, or 2, the whole idea of coloring eggs (eggs!) is too wonderful to ever dream of terminating in the act of eating them. 

But we saved the dipper, and now have 7 going into next Easter.

At Age 8. . .

She picks out earrings each day but asks me to put them in.

She builds blanket forts with her brother.

She usually puts together a cute a matchy-matchy outfit.  But she sometimes wears 9 barrettes in her hair all at once. 

She eats most of the food served to her, including salad.

She still pronounces "hotel" as "hoo-tel."

She reads Ramona books and thinks of them as Ramona books and not "Beverly Cleary" books.

She is always asking if she can do jobs around the house for me, and asking first if she'll get paid for it.

She plays with her brother "for ten minutes" after bed-time reading and before lights-out.  He is the one who asks for this play-time each night.  She is the one who goes along with it gladly.

She hunts for Easter eggs furiously.  Sprinting to the bright pink there, the neon yellow here.  Wearing a dress fringed in eyelet and Patton-leather shoes, and lacy socks she is made to save for just such an occasion.

She asks to be excused from the Easter supper where the conversation has turned--thanks to a personality at the table who mistakes himself for a radio talk show host--to politics. 

When asked what she is doing outside that fine Easter afternoon, she responds, "Only avoiding the most boring conversation in the whole world. . ."

What she knows about the whole world feels like enough to her, at age 8.

Seder

We hosted a messianic seder this past Friday.

"Seder" as in:  The traditional Jewish remembrance of Passover.

"Messianic" as in: Pointing out how the various symbols in that Jewish celebration point to Jesus as the Messiah.

It's amazing, by the way, all those symbols. . .

***

The meal was for a group of dear friends.  11 children, 8 adults.  Plus a seat for Elijah.

Joshua and Juliana were the two youngest in the room and it was their job to go to our doors and "look to see if Elijah has come."  They went.  They looked.  And they both really expected to find someone there.

***

20 place-settings.  I'd never done that before.

Three tables set up in a row, covered with strategic linens and stretching through our open floor-plan.  It worked out.

The colors of Easter, did you know? are black, red and white.

I'll tell you what else I'd never done:  roasted a big hunk of lamb.

I'd been undecided for a few weeks before about what to cook.  Rotisserie chicken from Costco?  I can't do better than that.  No one can do better than that. . .

Roasted chicken is traditional for messianic Jews because Jesus was the final sacrificial lamb.  Still, for the sake of re-tracing the steps of the Last Supper (which was Jesus' seder), a lamb seemed right.

Costco sells those, too. 

So there I was, ringing up at Costco with all my food plus a lamb roast plus a short list of items to get from the grocery store and the cashier said, "I've had lamb once.  It was delicious."

I said, "Yeah, but I have no idea how to cook it. . ."

Do I have a smart phone I could have used to google a recipe before hitting the next store?  No.

Did I want to go home, google it, then shop the next day for ingredients?  No.

I figured I'd. . .improvise. 

Then I looked up and saw the one person in Colorado Springs I knew could help me:  Susan O'Brien.

Long-time readers might remember Susan from our cancer store, and that one amazing embrace.

Dear Susan is, in her words, "a Jewish girl from Brooklyn"--whom I know from church. 

"Susan!" I shouted as I wheeled towards her.  A little hug, a little how-are-you and then, "You are just the person I need to see, I'm hosting a seder tomorrow night and I don't know how to cook a lamb."

Great, right?  That she just happened to be there to help?  So fun, this walk with God. . .

***

And the lamb?  Turned out pretty well.  The ends a bit over-done.  The middle was just right.  It has been completely delicious these following days as left-overs.  Maybe next time I'll cook it the day before and serve it a day old and much improved. 

And the seder?  Lovely. 

We each had a little Haggadah-seder-script and we each had a part to read.  The kids were engaged and, I think at times, stricken by the picture God painted thousands of years ago, and fullfilled a few thousand years later, and preserved for us to discover another few thousands years after that. 

He is the author of salvation.   The greatest story-teller we've ever known. 



Like No Other

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A Lamb

You know that Jesus is the Lamb of God.  That the people of Israel had been sacrificing a lamb every year for the Passover Feast--a lamb whose blood was then offered for atonement.

And then, one year, Jesus became that lamb once and for all. 

But did you know that each family's lamb was precious to them?

They did not buy the lamb from the dealer and then walk it over to the High Priest for the sacrifice just minutes later.

Each family was to bring their lamb into their home about a week ahead of time.

They were to name it, and live with it, and care for it.  And then bring it for sacrifice.


What grief.
How did they go through with it every year?  Oh, what grief. . .

And yet--this grief--just a shadow in our shadowlands of what the Father felt as He turned His back. 

Nurses

Originally posted on
Wednesday, July 22, 2009

A few more notes from my stay in the ICU:

I went to Creighton University for my undergrad. This small school had a massive pre-med and nursing population. Freshman year, it was hard to meet people who weren't going to be doctors and nurses.

As a result, the whole campus had to suffer with these people as they bemoaned every Biology and Organic Chemistry exam that came down the shoot. That's the one thing I didn't like about dorm life, hearing way too often in the halls: "Oh I am so stressed. Orgo is just killing me." Yeah? Then take a nap.

I would tell these people that I was majoring in English and Philosophy and they would say first, "Oh that sounds like fun," and then, "Are you going to teach with that?"

My only comfort was found in my fellow English and Philosophy majors, and Business friends, who would snark at the pre-medders with me. (Are you reading this, Nick? Jeff??? Frazier????? I'm talkin' about you guys!) It was kind of like being in a fraternity of We Who Wish To Avoid Gross Body Things.

Flash forward several years, and here I am, very glad that there are people professionally devoted to gross body things.

There was Michelle, the day time nurse. Sweet as could be. Totally OK with the gross stuff. Like "stripping my tubes."

I'm only going to describe this because it's pretty amazing. You're about to hear of the most basic of physics principles applied ingeniously to solve a medical problem with surgery.

The problem:   What do you do with the fluid that builds up as a response to a wound when you've sewn the wound shut? How do you drain it?

I didn't know until I was staring down at my chest at a long, kind of thick, alien worm looking shape stuck under my skin. This was a drainage tube. Placed up near my armpit, and then snaking down across the length of my chest, and then out somewhere on my side, almost on my back.

Did they make the hole in my skin back there and poke the tube through and then sew the skin flaps down? I don't know. I probably don't want to know. You're probably wishing I hadn't begun this line of discussion.

Attached to the tube was a little pastic ball with a valve that pops open. They squeezed the air out of it while the valve was open, then shut the valve, and this simple mechanism of suction pulled out all the excess fluid from the wound! I had two tubes, one from the armpit and one that I wasn't as dramatic from the actual breast removal. And the two little pastic balls sucked and sucked.

Disgusting.

And this nurse--and the others, whom I'll get to--came in with their gloves and emptied the balls out, measuring the fluid. Michelle was the first to "strip" the tubes, meaning she pulled on them to move along the little clots and make sure there was enough flow to do the job. I kept saying, "This is so gross. I'm so sorry you have to do this." As I actually felt the suction in the wound--weird.

And she'd say, "This is no problem at all. This is not gross. Don't worry about it."

And I wanted to say, "I'm so sorry I didn't really like your kind way back in college," but I didn't.

(Six days after surgery, I went into the clinic and a different nurse pulled the tubes out. OOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUCH!!!!!!!!!!!!! At one point, I was saying to myself, "I will not drop an f-bomb. I will NOT drop an f-bomb."

She said, "You're body is healing so quickly, this is amazing," and I said, "Half the country is praying for me. Of course I'm healing quickly.)

Then there was Desiree, the night nurse. She was also very nice. Maybe a little more liberal than Michelle. For instance, when it was time for her to run a catheter for me, she referred to my urethra as "Mr. Wink."

"Mr. Wink?" I asked, as I lay in a compromising position.

"Yeah, I call him that because he kinds of winks at you when you look for him."

Keep that helpful tip in mind, friends, for next time you go looking for someone's urethra.

I wanted to tell her, "See? If you'd majored in either English or Philosophy as well as nursing, you might have come across the notion that it's not right to refer to female anatomy as anything male. How about Mrs. Wink? Wouldn't that work?" but I didn't.

My last night there, Matthew was on duty instead of Desiree. Laurie and Bryan were visiting the whole evening, and the three of us were having a great time, laughing a lot, talking up a storm. This nurse would manufacture reasons to come in and he'd join in the conversation where he could. It's like he wanted to be part of the party. A real chatty Cathy, that Matthew.

My company left, I found myself embroiled in some kind of conversation with this nurse as the hour drew late. I finally said, "Well, I think I should get to sleep now"--and he took the hint and went back to his lonely desk in the hallway.

But he still had to come in for vitals, and at 3 AM, when he was there, I asked for a blanket. This launched him into chit chat about the weather, and then humidity, and then somehow the Midwest, and I think--because this is how insanely compulsive I am about conversation--I asked in my sleepy haze whether he'd spent much time in the Midwest. There was more talking, but I do not remember it, what with the drugs and the sleep and the hour. . .

But the next morning, right before his shift change, he came in again and I asked, "Was I hallucinating last night, or did you say you went to Creighton University?"

"No, that was real. I said I was a nursing student there. And you majored in English and Philosophy."

Dang. Really? I mean: seriously? And yet I am not making any of this up. When you read the next part, you're going to think I am fabricating, just for dramatic effect, but I'm not.

He said, "So did you end up teaching with that?"

I Couldn't Do the Job

Last week's riddle:

Those who head for the moon find me,
But are always quick to leave.
I am stinky, dirty, holey
Yet once vital for reprieve.

The answer:  Outhouse.  Again, Leslie. 

Honorable mention to Julie, who guess on Facebook with "blue cheese-penicillin" -- loved that guess!



And now for this week's:


I couldn't do the job
All others of my like have done
Victory over me meant
Eternal victory won.


What am I?

Shows We've Seen

Gemma, Josh and I have been partaking, lately.

You may have heard of North Korea's intention to launch a long range intercontinental ballistic missile.  So you may be able to imagine how busy Bryan has been at work.

Man.  Lately, I have needed to get out of the house.

***

The Muppets.

I was amazed it took such a crusade to get this movie made.  Who doesn't love the Muppets?  What theater Exec wasn't on that idea at the first one-line pitch?

And why isn't that show on, anymore?  There was a brief window of time that intersected my being old enough to understand that a show came on at a certain time on a certain station each week and the Muppets airing every Sunday night.

I watched it, and liked it, and didn't understand half the jokes that my Dad was laughing at, and he liked it, too.

Liked the movie, by the way.  So did the kids.

***

My first two movie theater memories:

Seeing Annie--the one with Carol Burnette--with MLQ and her kids.  She took me and Sister #4 along.  I only remember that she brought baggies of popcorn with her.  And that the "Little Girls" song scared me.

And, believe it or not, my other early memory is of The Empire Strikes Back, which Mr. Q (MLQ's husband) took us to for Michael Q's birthday.  I remember falling asleep either on his lap or against his shoulder.

I do not remember the popcorn situation for that one.

But does Joshua fall asleep while watching The Empire Strikes Back today?  No, sir.

***

This memory casting brings to mind two other shows from my youth that I watched faithfully.

First:  Moonlighting.  I can still sing the theme song.  ("Some walk by night. . . .")  A good mystery each week. 

The Second:  L. A. Law.  Oh, how I loved that show!  Each one posed a different ethical dilemma in a different case.  I would argue in my head about how it should be settled, long after the episode had ended.

A friend in college had the entire series of L. A. Law on VHS and we watched many of them in one of those college-era marathons that sprung up over random topics.

Didn't like them as much as an adult.  (Was I an adult then?. . .) 

It says something that the Muppets can appeal to me at age 7 and 37, and something else about these other shows that didn't live past my age of 14.

***

The kids and I went to Simpich in Old Colorado City.

The owner/performer is the son of owners/performers and the whole Simpich thing--doll shop, museum, theater showcase--is an institution around here.

I only just learned about them, though.

The production is all in marionettes.  (Cue the Sound of Music yodeling show. . .) 

These marionettes don't have movable mouths, and David Simpich is visible for the entire show.  But he's also invisible.  He faded into the story.

He moved the puppets and did a voice for each one and performed his own sound effects--it was marvelous.  Truly: a marvel.  The most amazing story-telling I've ever seen.

The show we took in was The Firebird.  The kids were enchanted.

The new show opening soon is The Secret Garden.  And the only thing stopping me from purchasing season tickets is that you have to pick your dates in advance.

***

We found ourselves at the library just in time for one of their Spring Break special performances.  They hosted an act called "Hip Hop for Kids." 

I had a long list of errands to knock out that didn't include a one hour production, but you've got to be flexible, right?

The show featured a man named Neil McIntyre.  A white guy who could do a beat box.  A really, really great beat box.

He had the kids on their feet and dancing for the whole show.  Not instructed dancing at all.  Just. . .move your body dancing and Gemma and Josh were swept up in the action. 

It's precious to see about 75 children, ages 9 and under, all "dancing" simply because they liked the beat. 

Not sure what I thought of his opening lyrics:

Hello, Hello Everybody
Even if your nose is snotty
Whether you pee in your pants or the potty
Hello, Hello Everybody

Hello, Hello Everybody
Even if your nose is snotty
Whether you drop a deuce in your pants or the potty
Hello, Hello Everybody


Really gross.
I don't the kids even caught it.  But the Moms all cringed.

Heck of a way to make a living.

***

The weather had been gorgeous, as I've mentioned. 

The herd on the cul-de-sac had water fights all day Saturday and Sunday evening.  That's how warm it had been.

Today--I write on Tuesday, this posts on Wednesday--schools had a snow day and we woke to about 3 inches of hail on the ground.

Gemma was supposed to go to her weekly Home School Academy. . .but. . .Snow day!

I took them to see Hugo at the dollar theater.

Long movie.  Kind of slow story-telling, too.  But it satisfied.  Resolved well.  Had good heroes.  A good villain.  And it made me want to live in a clock. 

The kids said they liked it, too.  But they like every movie they see in a theater and we had met friends there, so the day could not have been more fun.

***

Which of what we do and see will appeal in 30 years? 

Did something about the artistry in Simpich plant a seed? 

Or the fascinating idea that a pig could love a frog?  Or the use of the term "deuce"? 

Or the image of a child clinging to the long arm of a train station clock ticking?

Your Photos are Calling

How did it ever come to this? 

You are 3 1/2 years behind in putting your photos into a scrapbook.  That part, you understand.  You mistrust, even, people who are "caught up" to the very month they are living. 

But how did you ever come to the place where being so far behind would weigh on you?

You have friends who don't keep scrapbooks, and they don't seem to mind.

***

Why do you feel pressure about this? 

That you let your life stop in October of '08 on Crazy Hair Night at Awana when Gemma was making that same frumpled smile at the camera that Gramma Gemma used to make?

***

It would be one thing if you didn't like scrapbooks.  But you love them.  Yours, anyway.  The "thing you'd save in case of fire" deal and all that. 

It would be one thing if you didn't like making scrapbooks.  But you love that, too! 

Whenever you scrap, you feel like a genius at work, a multi-media story-teller, a victor writing the history.

So why has it been months since you've stuck a photo onto a page?

***

It's not because you're busy.  There are pockets of time.  Here and there.

It's not because you don't have the space. 

You have an entire desk--a postal sorting table once used in the town of Colby, Kansas--devoted to scrapbooks so that you never have to put anything away or clean up or pull stuff out just to get started.

It's on that desk that the frumpled face of Gemma at age 4 is smiling up at you.

***

Maybe. . .as much as you like scrapbooks and the making of them, they still feel like something done for someone else.  Your kids, in particular.

And maybe you already feel like you do plenty for them.

***

You know what got you started thinking about it: 

Bryan's comment that he had thoughtfully placed a big mover's blanked in the back of your mini-van so that when he "starts hauling bricks and manure" this Spring, it won't make a mess.

Bricks.  And manure.  In your minivan.

Well, of course, he would have to.  What?  Is he supposed to rent a vehicle to get the stuff he needs for the yard?

But you fantasize about showing up at his cubicle at work with a pile of bricks and manure and setting them down on top of a mover's blanket while he's doing his job.

Silly fantasy.  You'd never get past the first security gate, let alone the second.

***

You have this humble blog, though, you're own little space where you can write what you want and change the layout if you want or not do much at all, if you want. 

It's not for your kids.  It's not for your husband.  It's your own small desk.  And it's where your life can't be stopped in a certain day of a certain month.

It's a place where photos do not have a voice until you've selected them.

Seen from the Car

A few winters ago, on a day that was ice, ice, ice cold, the kind of day when it takes your vehicle a solid six minutes to warm up inside once you've started driving, Bryan and I were headed south on Powers and noticed this:

A guy on a motor scooter, bundled and wearing a ski mask.  At 50 mph heading north on Powers, he was drinking from a travel mug.

He was happy under that mask, I could just tell.  Tootling along on a busy street on a too-cold day, and probably hot coffee has never tasted better.

I love picturing that guy. 

***

My mother, Sister #1 and I were strolling along the Chicago River on a 70' afternoon in April.  A speed boat motored slowly along with its radio blaring a happy tune.  Something with a baseline.  A lot of horns, which always sounds like a party, right?

There was one guy on deck that I could see.  20-something.  His shirt off.  Shades on.  His skin pasty white from the shelter through winter.  And he was dancing.

Day off of work?  And it actually happened that his day off coincided with perfect weather for boating?  He was probably the happiest guy in Chicago that day.

I love picturing him, too.

***

I was stopped at a light heading downtown in the Springs the other day, in the midst of our unusual streak of early summer.  We hit  82' yesterday.  And we're going on, like, day 10 of this.

Here's a lady taking advantage of it:  she was in a motorized wheel chair, oxygen tank hooked on the back, her purse on her lap.  She wore purple pants, a pink shirt and a yellow beret. 

Her left leg was crossed over her right, grandly, as though she were drinking a mint julep on her porch at home.  And she was smoking. 

She made it--at 3 mph--from one corner of Platte to the other, hung a left and rolled a couple of yards to the entrance of the Walgreens where she stopped to finish her cigarette.

***

I'll tell you what I see from our car:  sign holders. 

Are they all over the country now?

They are all over this city.

This time of year, there are lots of men dressed like Lady Liberty or Uncle Sam--tax offices nearby.  But mostly, these people are not in costume.

Some of them just rock the sign, to the beat of their music, I presume, as 100% of the sign holders I've seen are hooked into iPods.

Some of them are fancy with their moves, though.  So fancy that I usually cannot read the sign. 

Is there a sign-holder agency that works like a temp office?   Or does Al's "We Buy Back Gold" Pawn Shop place a "sign holder wanted" ad?

How much do they make?

Do they drum up any business to justify the wage?  They must.  Because there are more sign holders out now than ever before.

Do they get a piece of whatever business they bring in?  How could they?  There's no way to measure their effectiveness. . . 

Hmm.  Wonder if I'd have done that job as a teenager.

***

Do you know what I look for, as I drive or ride, but rarely see?  Truck nuts. 

They make me laugh.   In the same way that I'm embarrassed when I laugh over something related to flatulence, I am embarrassed for laughing over truck nuts. 

There was a car somewhere in our neighborhood--must have been, because we saw it quite a few times--that was a total beater.  The driver was a young guy who didn't look cool.  He looked. . .quirky in that nerdy-but-individual way.

To this crummy car's rear bumper, the guy had attached a homemade pair.

And that item turned the entire vehicle into some kind of statement.  I don't even know what kind.    But it must have been funny because Bryan and I lost control every time we saw it.

I miss that car.  Haven't seen it in over two years.

***

I love seeing a guy in his truck with his dog next to him.  Makes me happy for the dog. 

***

When I see cops lying in wait for speeding traffic, I blink my lights to warn drivers headed into their trap. 

I didn't used to do this.  I used to frown upon the practice, and Bryan practiced it regularly. 

Now, I feel differently. 

I warned the guy, though, about the kind of relationship he was cultivating with citizens. . .

***

In the Fall of '93, Dad drove me to Omaha, Nebraska for my first semester of college.  His last child to go.  A new season for us both.

Northern Iowa was just recovering from a disastrous flood.  Our routed took us straight out I-80 and most of the time, across Iowa, the road was banked by lake after lake of flooded fields. 

The going was slow, as traffic was often reduced to one lane. 

At that pace, we both saw a huge yellow butterfly skitter past the windshield.  Surely we'd have killed it if we'd been going 70. 

Sure it was worth the extra hours of slow traffic to have seen it together--this lovely pair of wings, headed somewhere.

A Terrific Border Collie

Dog tricks make me happy.

And a video like this makes my day.




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