The actual trip to San Antonio? Oh. Well, that was fabulous.
I went to see my friend, not the place. I've been to see her before, and I checked the RiverWalk and Alamo boxes long ago. But they don't compare to time spent just being with this dear, dear person whom I've known since my Sophomore year at Creighton.
All these years later -- 18! -- it is pure soul-refreshment to talk and walk and eat and pray with her.
***
Something I really like about San Antonio: It's a humble place. A pretty big city, big enough to have its own NBA team, right?--but no one walks around with a big city posture.
(This is not my experience in, say, Chicago, a very fun place to be, but a place where the folks I see walking around would never call themselves, "folks.")
Colorado Springs is not podunk by anyone's estimation, I don't think. But we have no true claim to cosmopolitanism. The real city around here is Denver (and those Denverites know it!)
Colorado Springs. What is it, even? A nice, bigger town. Where people are too busy hiking, camping and skiing and deploying to do much of anything else.
***
The weekend of my trip had been planned originally as a getaway for me and Bryan together. But then we became delegates to our county and State Republican assemblies, the weekend for which became our new "getaway." Definitely more to report about all that stuff, which happens soon.
***
On the flight down from Denver, I saw a few minutes of a food show called "Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives," or something like that. I resented it right away because of the host. I've seen him around, and I take it he's a bit of a celebrity.
Why resent him? Because he's ugly and fat. And I have nothing against "ugly" and "fat," but I am annoyed that "ugly" and "fat" women are not given hosting positions like this on television. Why should he? Huh?
You're telling me there no man who measures up to the same standard required of women who want to be on TV and who has just as much personality as this guy?
***
Well. On this show, he was in a San Antonio "dive" called "Dough."
This place fires their pizzas for 90 seconds in a pizza oven that was imported from Naples. They open at whatever time and close "When the fresh-mozarella runs out"--e.g. they make the cheese every morning.
It looked de-lish-us.
This place was in the neighborhood of my hotel and my friend's house, and so we went. And nothing about it looked like a dive. It was a classy place, front to back, up and down. A 10 for presentation.
And the food. . .oh, the food. I am not a frivolous person, but I really think it would be worth a plane ticket to fly to San Antonio to eat there a few times in one weekend.
It was the kind of food that made us interrupt each other's conversation to say, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but I just have to say: this bite right here--shut up, it's so crazy good."
***
Sunday, for lunch, my friend offered to take me back. But Mexican food sounded good to her, and that was good for me, too. I almost didn't want to try a different pizza at Dough for fear that it wouldn't be as startling.
We ate at Papacita's, which is a Texas family chain of sorts.
I don't even appreciate Mexican food. Friends tell me that Colorado Springs doesn't have one single good Mexican food place serving today. And I'm like, "But there's Qudoba right there off of Powers Avenue."
(That's something else about the Springs: Very few independent places, totally dominated by chains and franchises, especially on our side of town.)
We ordered fajitas. And again: "Get out of here. . ."
We subbed grilled vegetables for the rice and beans and I figured I'd eat them--as I do all vegetables--only because I know they are good for me and not because I enjoy eating them.
But these vegetables. Shut up! How can a vegetable taste so good? Grilled! Without butter!
I told my friend, "The last time I've eaten back-to-back meals this good, I was in Italy."
Wow.
That was some good eating.
***
Too soon, it was time to fly home.
All went smoothly.
The connection from Denver to the Springs was, again, a propeller plane. But night air is far more calm than day air because the sun isn't heating it up into drafts. (That sounds reasonable, right? I'm kind of just tossin' stuff out here.)
The plane was so small, we had to check our regular-sized carry-ons at the gate, and then wait outside for them to cart it over.
There we stood, just out of Denver, at 10:30 PM, thankful that a warm front had settled in earlier that day. It would take just a few minutes.
One young woman, who obviously had not gate checked a bag, saw the growing crowd on the tarmac, waiting, and asked me, "We have to pick up our luggage out here?"
That's right, miss, you're in cow country now.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Who Says Americans Are Falling Behind in Technological Developments?
Alternatively titled:
Hear, yee, all who have forsaken beer during Lent. Get working now and you could have a sweet set-up by Holy Saturday.
Hear, yee, all who have forsaken beer during Lent. Get working now and you could have a sweet set-up by Holy Saturday.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Hotels
A Few Notes on Hotels
Yes, I am in San Antonio to visit a friend. But they have a pretty full house, and I think staying at hotel is a real treat. Totally worth the money.
***
My Dad is not of this school of thinking. "All I'm going to do is sleep there," he says.
That's not all I do in a hotel.
I unpack my/our bags in a hotel room.
I bathe there. Put my contacts in there. Do my makeup there.
I walk around barefoot in a hotel room.
I watch TV there. I--and I'm not kidding anyone now--read there.
I write there. Here.
And, yes, I do sleep in a hotel room. Of all the things I do every day, sleeping is the third most important. So let's not undersell the activity of sleeping when considering how nice a room we'll get.
***
This room is nice. But moderately priced. The breakfast was positively elaborate.
The linens! The linens will make or break a hotel bed. This place went the European route: down comforter inside a duvet instead of coarse blankets and a polyester bed spread. Ahh. . .
***
Part of what makes a hotel room inviting is that it is so neat and tidy when you walk in. And the bed is made.
A few months ago, I got to talking with a group of friends about whether they make their beds each morning. They all did. (!)
I've never been a bed-maker. Never.
In college, I straightened the comforter each morning out of consideration for my roommate, and because it's hard to get any work done in a messy room and a room can't look un-messy if the bed is un-made.
But since then, I've never made my bed.
Until that conversation with my friends. I decided to try it for a week. And it has revolutionized my life. Not exaggerating, folks.
Coming into my bedroom after a full day didn't used to be a noteable experience.
But now, coming into our bedroom where the bed is made, I feel. . .a transition time. A "your responsibilities have been fulfilled, it is time to relax" time.
I am a better-rested person now that I make my bed each day.
***
I made my own hotel bed before sitting down to write this, though I could have waited for the maid.
Why? Can't get anything done in a messy room!
***
I don't do the soap trick. (I first wrote "I am not a soap-hoarder" but there seems to be a judgement in that term.)
Bryan does do the soap trick. But he uses them at home. And when he helped his parents move, he took their massive collection of soaps--I guess they did the soap trick, too--and put it under our bathroom sink.
I cannot remember the last time I had to buy soap at the grocery store.
I was tempted to do the trick last night, though, when I saw the mini-toothpaste. Crest, no less! Because the single mini tube we've been using to take onto airplanes for the last year is almost gone.
Taking home 2 mini tubes would be quite a nice supply. We could get another 3 years out of them, at least.
***
Some of you get onto a lot more airplanes than we do.
I don't think I'd like having to fly a whole lot more than a few times a year. Even if the hotel room at the other end was a 5 star.
***
I was thinking last night that a hot shower in a hotel room after a day that includes flying feels better than a hot shower at home on any other day.
That first shower after arrival feels like the real start of your trip. The grunge of your travels washes away. You are clean. Ready to be the best version of yourself in a new place.
It called to mind that scene in Lawrence of Arabia, where Lawrence is travelling back across the desert after taking Agriba, and his young servant is at his side.
He says to the Arab boy, as they journey through the hot, dirty, exhausting land, "Have you ever slept in clean, white sheets?" He promised they would, when they reached the city.
What a delicious promise. I too, as I watched it, wanted so badly to sleep in clean, white sheets.
***
A note on Lawrence, the real one, not the movie one. He wrote his autobiography. Had the stack of typewritten pages in a valice and was taking it to his publisher.
Somewhere in the train station, somehow, someway. . .it vanished. The whole stinkin' thing. Gone.
He re-wrote it from memory, maybe from some notes, though they may have been in the briefcase, too.
But that first manuscript. . . Is it still out there? I have the thought now and again, "Won't it be such a thrill for the person who one day finds it? And realizes what she has?"
Not that this manuscript is any particularly important or grand work. I wouldn't know. Never read it. But it is a famous book by a very peculiar and impressive person.
So much action packed into just one life. Action that made the promise of clean white sheets seem far more dramatic than it ever could to me.
***
It is later now.
Last night, my friend dropped me off here, in my very nice room. She and her two sons - ages 2 and 8 - left, and the next I heard from them was Saturday, late morning.
But at the end of the elevator ride down, after dropping me off, the 2 year old had pressed his hand against the elevator door, and did not move it when the door opened.
It slid into the pocket, and acted as a door stop for the enormous pressure of the door.
He started screaming.
His brother, concerned, started screaming.
My friend tried pulling the door out, but it would not budge. It is not set to. It's sole goal was to open all the way, but it couldn't, because something was holding it open. . .
A hotel staff member came running, and stared at the situation in panic.
Two men came running, too. Not staff members. Just two men. They put their hands to the door and pulled it open with ease.
The 2 year old's hand came out and swelled to triple its size. But x-rays followed. Nothing broken. Nothing even hurt the next day.
The brother asked my friend later, "Do you think those two men were God's angels?"
Well. Sure. They may well have been.
***
And to think, as all this was happening, I was upstairs in my swank room, enjoying the quiet, enjoying my little laptop, simply looking forward to a good night's sleep in some lovely linens.
Yes, I am in San Antonio to visit a friend. But they have a pretty full house, and I think staying at hotel is a real treat. Totally worth the money.
***
My Dad is not of this school of thinking. "All I'm going to do is sleep there," he says.
That's not all I do in a hotel.
I unpack my/our bags in a hotel room.
I bathe there. Put my contacts in there. Do my makeup there.
I walk around barefoot in a hotel room.
I watch TV there. I--and I'm not kidding anyone now--read there.
I write there. Here.
And, yes, I do sleep in a hotel room. Of all the things I do every day, sleeping is the third most important. So let's not undersell the activity of sleeping when considering how nice a room we'll get.
***
This room is nice. But moderately priced. The breakfast was positively elaborate.
The linens! The linens will make or break a hotel bed. This place went the European route: down comforter inside a duvet instead of coarse blankets and a polyester bed spread. Ahh. . .
***
Part of what makes a hotel room inviting is that it is so neat and tidy when you walk in. And the bed is made.
A few months ago, I got to talking with a group of friends about whether they make their beds each morning. They all did. (!)
I've never been a bed-maker. Never.
In college, I straightened the comforter each morning out of consideration for my roommate, and because it's hard to get any work done in a messy room and a room can't look un-messy if the bed is un-made.
But since then, I've never made my bed.
Until that conversation with my friends. I decided to try it for a week. And it has revolutionized my life. Not exaggerating, folks.
Coming into my bedroom after a full day didn't used to be a noteable experience.
But now, coming into our bedroom where the bed is made, I feel. . .a transition time. A "your responsibilities have been fulfilled, it is time to relax" time.
I am a better-rested person now that I make my bed each day.
***
I made my own hotel bed before sitting down to write this, though I could have waited for the maid.
Why? Can't get anything done in a messy room!
***
I don't do the soap trick. (I first wrote "I am not a soap-hoarder" but there seems to be a judgement in that term.)
Bryan does do the soap trick. But he uses them at home. And when he helped his parents move, he took their massive collection of soaps--I guess they did the soap trick, too--and put it under our bathroom sink.
I cannot remember the last time I had to buy soap at the grocery store.
I was tempted to do the trick last night, though, when I saw the mini-toothpaste. Crest, no less! Because the single mini tube we've been using to take onto airplanes for the last year is almost gone.
Taking home 2 mini tubes would be quite a nice supply. We could get another 3 years out of them, at least.
***
Some of you get onto a lot more airplanes than we do.
I don't think I'd like having to fly a whole lot more than a few times a year. Even if the hotel room at the other end was a 5 star.
***
I was thinking last night that a hot shower in a hotel room after a day that includes flying feels better than a hot shower at home on any other day.
That first shower after arrival feels like the real start of your trip. The grunge of your travels washes away. You are clean. Ready to be the best version of yourself in a new place.
It called to mind that scene in Lawrence of Arabia, where Lawrence is travelling back across the desert after taking Agriba, and his young servant is at his side.
He says to the Arab boy, as they journey through the hot, dirty, exhausting land, "Have you ever slept in clean, white sheets?" He promised they would, when they reached the city.
What a delicious promise. I too, as I watched it, wanted so badly to sleep in clean, white sheets.
***
A note on Lawrence, the real one, not the movie one. He wrote his autobiography. Had the stack of typewritten pages in a valice and was taking it to his publisher.
Somewhere in the train station, somehow, someway. . .it vanished. The whole stinkin' thing. Gone.
He re-wrote it from memory, maybe from some notes, though they may have been in the briefcase, too.
But that first manuscript. . . Is it still out there? I have the thought now and again, "Won't it be such a thrill for the person who one day finds it? And realizes what she has?"
Not that this manuscript is any particularly important or grand work. I wouldn't know. Never read it. But it is a famous book by a very peculiar and impressive person.
So much action packed into just one life. Action that made the promise of clean white sheets seem far more dramatic than it ever could to me.
***
It is later now.
Last night, my friend dropped me off here, in my very nice room. She and her two sons - ages 2 and 8 - left, and the next I heard from them was Saturday, late morning.
But at the end of the elevator ride down, after dropping me off, the 2 year old had pressed his hand against the elevator door, and did not move it when the door opened.
It slid into the pocket, and acted as a door stop for the enormous pressure of the door.
He started screaming.
His brother, concerned, started screaming.
My friend tried pulling the door out, but it would not budge. It is not set to. It's sole goal was to open all the way, but it couldn't, because something was holding it open. . .
A hotel staff member came running, and stared at the situation in panic.
Two men came running, too. Not staff members. Just two men. They put their hands to the door and pulled it open with ease.
The 2 year old's hand came out and swelled to triple its size. But x-rays followed. Nothing broken. Nothing even hurt the next day.
The brother asked my friend later, "Do you think those two men were God's angels?"
Well. Sure. They may well have been.
***
And to think, as all this was happening, I was upstairs in my swank room, enjoying the quiet, enjoying my little laptop, simply looking forward to a good night's sleep in some lovely linens.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Surgical Consult Kicks Off Marathon
(On Fridays, I am re-posting some of the key entries from our journey with breast cancer. I am editing them a bit to make them leaner, but am not adding anything unless I mark it as an editor's comment.)
Surgical Consult
By way of bias, we were already gunning to get out into town. But it turns out that Dr. Mayfield is awesome. We love him already! Our concerns were all laid to rest and we're completely confident in entrusting my care to him. Praise God. Truly. He has made the path ahead of us very clear and we're both glad to have no ambiguity about it.
There is only one course to pursue and though it looks rough, at least it is plainly evident. Mine is a common kind of cancer, the sort that grows in the ducts.
Surgical Consult
17 June 09
Bryan and I went to my consult today. Our biggest prayer was that we'd either have an extreme peace with the Army surgeon, or that serious red flags would go up such that we'd seek medicine out in town with civilians.
Bryan and I went to my consult today. Our biggest prayer was that we'd either have an extreme peace with the Army surgeon, or that serious red flags would go up such that we'd seek medicine out in town with civilians.
By way of bias, we were already gunning to get out into town. But it turns out that Dr. Mayfield is awesome. We love him already! Our concerns were all laid to rest and we're completely confident in entrusting my care to him. Praise God. Truly. He has made the path ahead of us very clear and we're both glad to have no ambiguity about it.
There is only one course to pursue and though it looks rough, at least it is plainly evident. Mine is a common kind of cancer, the sort that grows in the ducts.
The tumor is a whopping 8 cm big. 8 centimeters. That's pretty freaking huge, and Mayfield guesses that it has been growing for several years now.
And it's aggressive, too, as it is already pushing into my muscle. It's rare to find this kind of cancer in someone 34 years old--I'm in an elite 0.5%. So how about that.
Surgery is scheduled for next Friday, the 26th. It will be a radical mastectomy, which means he'll carve into my muscle as well.
Surgery is scheduled for next Friday, the 26th. It will be a radical mastectomy, which means he'll carve into my muscle as well.
On the one hand, it's a bummer to lose a breast. On the other hand, I really see today how life threatening this cancer is. As Mayfield said--with tears in his eyes, which I thought was great--I really only have one shot at getting this right.
So there's no holding back. There is a lot of grief in this. But there's no point in being in a coffin with 2 breasts. That are getting a little saggy anyway. And frankly, once I'm re-constructed, I'll be even more smoking hot than I am now.
Before the surgery, I'll undergo some sort of glucose imaging procedure where they'll determine if the cancer has spread into any other organs. They are nearly certain it's in the lymph nodes of the right armpit. The left lymph nodes and the left breast, at this point using the MRI, look clean. So all the right lymph nodes will come out during surgery as well.
Before the surgery, I'll undergo some sort of glucose imaging procedure where they'll determine if the cancer has spread into any other organs. They are nearly certain it's in the lymph nodes of the right armpit. The left lymph nodes and the left breast, at this point using the MRI, look clean. So all the right lymph nodes will come out during surgery as well.
Before the operation, I'll also see an oncologist and radiation guy to consult with them. Then they'll confer with the surgeon and tell him if and where to place the valves that they'll use to shoot the chemicals through.
Mayfield is 95% certain that both therapy doctors will recommend giving me everything in their armory. Because I'm young and healthy, I'll be able to tolerate anything. And so they'll want to hit me with "The steak, the potato, the green bean, and then the tray itself." Because, again, my first shot is my best shot. As unpleasant as this sounds, I'd rather they be aggressive than having them tenderfoot around, hoping for the best.
Again, I cannot tell you how pleased we are with this guy. It really feels like God hand-picked him for us.
Again, I cannot tell you how pleased we are with this guy. It really feels like God hand-picked him for us.
We also happened to discover that he is a Christian who first submitted to the Lord in 2006, and that he had prayed before our appointment. . . Needless to say, it'd be hard to imagine a better match for ourselves.
***
Marathon
21 June 09
As we've prayed about this whole cancer thing, what we've been hearing back from God is that we are heading down a long road that will end well. God has told us several times: "This is a marathon, not a sprint."
Go back 5 years to our time in Korea. The movie theater there showed movies for free, so we went all the time. They always showed the same refreshment movie where candy wrappers balled themselves up and jumped into the trash can and tubs of popcorn gathered into a kickline.
As we've prayed about this whole cancer thing, what we've been hearing back from God is that we are heading down a long road that will end well. God has told us several times: "This is a marathon, not a sprint."
Go back 5 years to our time in Korea. The movie theater there showed movies for free, so we went all the time. They always showed the same refreshment movie where candy wrappers balled themselves up and jumped into the trash can and tubs of popcorn gathered into a kickline.
The music to this movie was so wonderful! It was fast and catchy and I'd always kind of dance in my seat and tell Bryan how badly I wanted a copy of this song. This was music that could get me out of bed in the morning!
But there are no credits for that kind of thing. I had nothing to go on. No artist. No title. Nothin'! I left Korea and said goodbye to that refreshment music.
Fast forward to this past weekend. We had promised Josh that we'd take him to the "North Pole" (a kiddie-ride amusement park nestled into the mountains) for his 3rd birthday. Figuring that I might not be feeling to well come late July, we went last Sunday. Had a great time. Perfect weather. Not crowded. So much fun. We took a break to watch the magic show and the magician took the stage and began performing to. . . that refreshment song!!!!!! I couldn't believe it! Bryan! That's the song!
After the show, I approached the magician and said, "Great show, great show--now what was that one song called?"
"Oh, this one?" he asked, and re-played a snippet of it. "This is called 'Marathon.'"
Well. How about that.
People, what can I say? If Jesus Christ did not resurrect from the dead, if He stayed dead as all other people do, then I am imagining things. I'm imagining God's peace. I'm fabricating this joy. And the 15 years since I chose to believe that Jesus Christ is the resurrected Savior have not been full of God's Hand working in my life. They've been full of coincidence and wishful thinking.
But if He did resurrect from the dead, then I am right to put my hope and trust in Him, and the belief that He is mighty to save.
I am thankful that this tough road before me comes only after I spent 5 years working for a New Testament historian specializing in debates with atheists and Muslims. In those 5 years, I came across every objection to God, to Jesus, to the Bible. And I've seen each objection fail.
But there are no credits for that kind of thing. I had nothing to go on. No artist. No title. Nothin'! I left Korea and said goodbye to that refreshment music.
Fast forward to this past weekend. We had promised Josh that we'd take him to the "North Pole" (a kiddie-ride amusement park nestled into the mountains) for his 3rd birthday. Figuring that I might not be feeling to well come late July, we went last Sunday. Had a great time. Perfect weather. Not crowded. So much fun. We took a break to watch the magic show and the magician took the stage and began performing to. . . that refreshment song!!!!!! I couldn't believe it! Bryan! That's the song!
After the show, I approached the magician and said, "Great show, great show--now what was that one song called?"
"Oh, this one?" he asked, and re-played a snippet of it. "This is called 'Marathon.'"
Well. How about that.
People, what can I say? If Jesus Christ did not resurrect from the dead, if He stayed dead as all other people do, then I am imagining things. I'm imagining God's peace. I'm fabricating this joy. And the 15 years since I chose to believe that Jesus Christ is the resurrected Savior have not been full of God's Hand working in my life. They've been full of coincidence and wishful thinking.
But if He did resurrect from the dead, then I am right to put my hope and trust in Him, and the belief that He is mighty to save.
I am thankful that this tough road before me comes only after I spent 5 years working for a New Testament historian specializing in debates with atheists and Muslims. In those 5 years, I came across every objection to God, to Jesus, to the Bible. And I've seen each objection fail.
(I could even make a bar game out of it: If you can come up with an objection I've never heard of, I'll buy you a drink. And if I can't come up with a good and reasonable answer to it, I'll start drinking with you.) I can gladly say that my faith is strengthened by experience and rational inquiry.
So if you're reading this and thinking that you are glad that I'm walking in peace even though it's from some sort of placebo effect, please consider beginning or resuming or re-visiting your own inquiry.
So if you're reading this and thinking that you are glad that I'm walking in peace even though it's from some sort of placebo effect, please consider beginning or resuming or re-visiting your own inquiry.
And I'm not asking you to do it because I've got cancer and can therefore ask anything of anybody. I'm asking because you are all going to die at some point. And if now isn't an OK time to bring up that fact and sincerely share my deep hope that all will know the riches of Christ along with me, then there will never be an OK time.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Protected by Masked Men
Last week's riddle and answer:
I am greater than God
worse than Satan
Dead people eat me
When people eat me, they die
Answer:
"Nothing"
Way to go, Amanda, who nailed it. And though there were not many comments, I like to think that a few others took it with them and considered it now and then. Probably solved it, too, without doing so publically.
For today's:
I am protected by masked men
Yet stolen all the time
I am anchored on a diamond
And stepped upon by nine
I am greater than God
worse than Satan
Dead people eat me
When people eat me, they die
Answer:
"Nothing"
Way to go, Amanda, who nailed it. And though there were not many comments, I like to think that a few others took it with them and considered it now and then. Probably solved it, too, without doing so publically.
For today's:
I am protected by masked men
Yet stolen all the time
I am anchored on a diamond
And stepped upon by nine
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Airports Part II
In Denver now. Still en route to San Antonio.
The plane ride up was on a propeller-powered plane--low altitude, so it was bumpy and over-the-hill-on-a-roller-coaster-y. At one point, there was a 50/50 chance I was going to use the disposable paper bag.
At that point, I thought, "If it comes to that, I'll at least have a good story for the blog." Because that kind of story always turns out well in print.
I fell on the "no-incident" half of that proposition.
***
I used to look forward to travel as an exciting opportunity to talk to strangers.
But everyone--and as I sit at this gate, I'm telling you: everyone--is plugged into a device, or thumbing madly at one. A couple of people are both thumbing and talking to the person they are traveling with.
So that's the way we're going to be? Fine. I've got a device of my own. . .
***
And it turns out that when I pulled it out to make some notes, the screen came up immediately, though I thought I had powered it off for the flight.
People! If my portable electronic device had caused our plane to -- ugh. No point in completing that sentence.
But the flight was smooth, low-altitude not with standing.
What is the point of turning off such devices? I'm serious. Do we know the answer to that question?
***
I stopped in a bookstore just to see.
Found a novel by Lee Child, a terrific, terrific story-teller, and I'm pretty sure I haven't read it yet.
Mom would say this, still says this. "Let me see. . .have I read this one? I can't remember."
This was madness to me. And she's been saying it for at least 30 years.
I know now: It's not a memory problem. It's a pulp fiction genre problem. This action books are all the same. Their titles rarely have much to do with the plots. From start to finish, they are products to be sold, not art created to evoke.
And I really like them. I might even read it when I get to the hotel, too.
***
I also bought a set of 3 Moleskine notebooks. Oh, Moleskine. You are so nice to tuck into my purse.
I met you last year when I decided to get a date book for the first time since college. I loved you all year long. Something about that sturdy cover, the vanilla-colored paper, the feeling that I am a woman with something to do when I write down my somethings onto your pages.
But I couldn't find the right version of you this year!
And I never did get used to how you made Sunday the last day of the week on the month-at-a-glance. All year long, I thought Tuesday was really Monday.
So I found a Meade at Target, and she does the job well enough. But to have a plain little Moleskine in my pursue now, in which I will write notes often of things I want to remember for the blog--well, it's a reunion that is so happy, it augurs well for my whole trip.
When I write them in you, I will feel like a woman with something to write.
***
I switched purses this morning and failed to pack a pen. All these things I want to write for the blog--that I was going to jot into my new Moleskine--I cannot now jot.
Buy a pen at the bookstore?
For two lousy bic ballpoints, they wanted $2.19. Just couldn't do it.
Especially because I knew that a lousy Bic was waiting for me--for free!--on my hotel room's desk.
So I found the gate, sat down, powered up the netbook--which happened quickly!--and took care of business.
All of which I could have accomplished without the notebooks, the search for too-expensive pens, the powering up--if I had a device that my thumbs could write on.
But, come one, with this pressure sleeve, how long could my right thumb go?
The plane ride up was on a propeller-powered plane--low altitude, so it was bumpy and over-the-hill-on-a-roller-coaster-y. At one point, there was a 50/50 chance I was going to use the disposable paper bag.
At that point, I thought, "If it comes to that, I'll at least have a good story for the blog." Because that kind of story always turns out well in print.
I fell on the "no-incident" half of that proposition.
***
I used to look forward to travel as an exciting opportunity to talk to strangers.
But everyone--and as I sit at this gate, I'm telling you: everyone--is plugged into a device, or thumbing madly at one. A couple of people are both thumbing and talking to the person they are traveling with.
So that's the way we're going to be? Fine. I've got a device of my own. . .
***
And it turns out that when I pulled it out to make some notes, the screen came up immediately, though I thought I had powered it off for the flight.
People! If my portable electronic device had caused our plane to -- ugh. No point in completing that sentence.
But the flight was smooth, low-altitude not with standing.
What is the point of turning off such devices? I'm serious. Do we know the answer to that question?
***
I stopped in a bookstore just to see.
Found a novel by Lee Child, a terrific, terrific story-teller, and I'm pretty sure I haven't read it yet.
Mom would say this, still says this. "Let me see. . .have I read this one? I can't remember."
This was madness to me. And she's been saying it for at least 30 years.
I know now: It's not a memory problem. It's a pulp fiction genre problem. This action books are all the same. Their titles rarely have much to do with the plots. From start to finish, they are products to be sold, not art created to evoke.
And I really like them. I might even read it when I get to the hotel, too.
***
I also bought a set of 3 Moleskine notebooks. Oh, Moleskine. You are so nice to tuck into my purse.
I met you last year when I decided to get a date book for the first time since college. I loved you all year long. Something about that sturdy cover, the vanilla-colored paper, the feeling that I am a woman with something to do when I write down my somethings onto your pages.
But I couldn't find the right version of you this year!
And I never did get used to how you made Sunday the last day of the week on the month-at-a-glance. All year long, I thought Tuesday was really Monday.
So I found a Meade at Target, and she does the job well enough. But to have a plain little Moleskine in my pursue now, in which I will write notes often of things I want to remember for the blog--well, it's a reunion that is so happy, it augurs well for my whole trip.
When I write them in you, I will feel like a woman with something to write.
***
I switched purses this morning and failed to pack a pen. All these things I want to write for the blog--that I was going to jot into my new Moleskine--I cannot now jot.
Buy a pen at the bookstore?
For two lousy bic ballpoints, they wanted $2.19. Just couldn't do it.
Especially because I knew that a lousy Bic was waiting for me--for free!--on my hotel room's desk.
So I found the gate, sat down, powered up the netbook--which happened quickly!--and took care of business.
All of which I could have accomplished without the notebooks, the search for too-expensive pens, the powering up--if I had a device that my thumbs could write on.
But, come one, with this pressure sleeve, how long could my right thumb go?
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Airports
I am writing in the Colorado Springs Airport, as I sit at the gate, 90 minutes before my flight.
90, and not a more reasonable 30, because this is how I was raised. More by Dad than Mom. He can be compulsive about these rules.
Going to a meeting? 5 minutes early.
Class? 5 minutes early.
Party? What kind of person keeps a host waiting?
(And those who say they aim to be "fashionably late?" "That's not fashion. That's bad manners.")
Flight? 2 hours early, domestic.
International? Are you kidding me? You got to get there the night before.
***
Love this airport. A "crowd" at security means a 10 minute wait.
Baggage comes out before you can get to the claim.
True, I often have to connect through Denver to get to places, but DIA is a pleasant place if you don't have to tread outside of security. Man. That airport is such a disaster all of the time that Bryan and I would rather pay more for a ticket and connect through than start or end a trip there.
***
At the gate, the chairs are lined with power outlets and USB jacks for charging. That feels like a great perk, and I'm sure it's everywhere.
There is no free wifi, however. So I'm writing to my Word program and will post it all later.
Wifi. I was in second grade when my teacher told us that one day, we would write a message on one computer and it would show up on a second computer half-way around the world the next instant.
I didn't believer her. I just couldn't. But I deeply wanted it to be true.
And she hadn't even said anything about wifi.
***
This blog is saving me money, by the way. I didn't spend 7 bucks on a magazine to read while waiting 90 minutes for my flight to take off because I knew I could kill the time by writing.
"Kill time." From whence did that violent phrase come?
***
Why not bring a book from home?
Whom am I kidding, at this point? I don't read when I travel, once I get to the hotel. I watch TV.
***
As I came through security, a woman called down to her husband, about whatever question, "It's a 'yes.'"
I said, "The children in my cul de sac use that phrase all the time now" -- as in, Mom, can I play in Gemma and Joshua's backyard? "It's a yes"; Can we have Popsicles outside today, it's so warm i can take my hat off? "It's a no" --
"Where," I asked this lady, "Did that phrase come from?"
She smiled and rolled her eyes. "Probably something on TV."
***
I am wearing my pressure garments/sleeves on my right hand and arm. This, to prevent lymphedema from setting in when I fly--weird air pressure and such.
(Oh? Further explanation? I don't have lymph nodes above the right arm to pump extra lymph out. Air pressure often causes the body to push around extra lymph. The pressure garments keep the extra lymph circulating, which prevents my arm from swelling.)
I don't have to wear any kind of pressure treatment at any other time, for which I am so totally praising God. There was a season when I had to wrap my fingers and wear a sleeve everyday, taking it off only for special occasions.
But now, my right arm is as normal as the left. Gosh, it feels great to be healed.
***
The sleeve does, however, make my hand and wrist work a lot harder to type. I'm working against resistance, after all.
Time, therefore, to stop this post? But then what would I do with the remaining 60 minutes?
(Part II to follow)
In
90, and not a more reasonable 30, because this is how I was raised. More by Dad than Mom. He can be compulsive about these rules.
Going to a meeting? 5 minutes early.
Class? 5 minutes early.
Party? What kind of person keeps a host waiting?
(And those who say they aim to be "fashionably late?" "That's not fashion. That's bad manners.")
Flight? 2 hours early, domestic.
International? Are you kidding me? You got to get there the night before.
***
Love this airport. A "crowd" at security means a 10 minute wait.
Baggage comes out before you can get to the claim.
True, I often have to connect through Denver to get to places, but DIA is a pleasant place if you don't have to tread outside of security. Man. That airport is such a disaster all of the time that Bryan and I would rather pay more for a ticket and connect through than start or end a trip there.
***
At the gate, the chairs are lined with power outlets and USB jacks for charging. That feels like a great perk, and I'm sure it's everywhere.
There is no free wifi, however. So I'm writing to my Word program and will post it all later.
Wifi. I was in second grade when my teacher told us that one day, we would write a message on one computer and it would show up on a second computer half-way around the world the next instant.
I didn't believer her. I just couldn't. But I deeply wanted it to be true.
And she hadn't even said anything about wifi.
***
This blog is saving me money, by the way. I didn't spend 7 bucks on a magazine to read while waiting 90 minutes for my flight to take off because I knew I could kill the time by writing.
"Kill time." From whence did that violent phrase come?
***
Why not bring a book from home?
Whom am I kidding, at this point? I don't read when I travel, once I get to the hotel. I watch TV.
***
As I came through security, a woman called down to her husband, about whatever question, "It's a 'yes.'"
I said, "The children in my cul de sac use that phrase all the time now" -- as in, Mom, can I play in Gemma and Joshua's backyard? "It's a yes"; Can we have Popsicles outside today, it's so warm i can take my hat off? "It's a no" --
"Where," I asked this lady, "Did that phrase come from?"
She smiled and rolled her eyes. "Probably something on TV."
***
I am wearing my pressure garments/sleeves on my right hand and arm. This, to prevent lymphedema from setting in when I fly--weird air pressure and such.
(Oh? Further explanation? I don't have lymph nodes above the right arm to pump extra lymph out. Air pressure often causes the body to push around extra lymph. The pressure garments keep the extra lymph circulating, which prevents my arm from swelling.)
I don't have to wear any kind of pressure treatment at any other time, for which I am so totally praising God. There was a season when I had to wrap my fingers and wear a sleeve everyday, taking it off only for special occasions.
But now, my right arm is as normal as the left. Gosh, it feels great to be healed.
***
The sleeve does, however, make my hand and wrist work a lot harder to type. I'm working against resistance, after all.
Time, therefore, to stop this post? But then what would I do with the remaining 60 minutes?
(Part II to follow)
In
Monday, March 5, 2012
Gemma Adopts A Club
Gemma is a Spark at our church's Awana club.
Gemma loves Awana. So, when our club announces that we are raising money to "adopt" a club in Zimbabwe--I know, it is surprising that Mugabe's regime permits Awana!-- Gemma sets off on a mission.
In general, she likes to earn money. She thinks often about what kind of business she can start (right now), and how the businesses and zoos and movie theaters around her make their money. But to make money so that kids in Zimbabwe can do Awana, too? She's just thrilled.
Her mother: less so.
I come from a family of salespeople, so I know the type. But I am not the type. Asking people for money makes me nervous.
Couldn't Gemma just be content to earn money by doing jobs around the house?
No. I think she is the type.
I wrestled with this, folks. Really prayed a lot about it. About why the prospect of her going door to door made me sick to my stomach. But God pointed out that this is something He has woven into her person, and I have to let her live that out.
Sigh. . .But then. . .she made something more than bookmarks, something besides soaps (which were kind of pretty). . .she made earrings.
Beautiful, well-crafted earrings. Hmm. If priced right. . .
We made a little display board from Bryan's old black trousers, a cardboard box and ribbon wrapped around from which the fish hook earrings could dangle.
She loaded that, plus the soaps and book marks into her baby doll stroller, donned her red Sparkie vest, gathered money to make change and even took along a pen and paper in case someone wanted to make a custom order for soap. (No such orders came in.)
Ding Dong
"Hi, my name is Gemma and I'm selling these items I made to raise money for kids in Zimbabwe so they can have an Awana club, too. The soaps and bookmarks are a quarter each, and the earrings are one dollar."
One hour and twenty minutes later: $19.50 raised.
House after house--if someone was home--she made a sale. After half dozen of these, she said, "This is going rather well, I'd say,"
The people who answered their doors were so nice. And I was glad to introduce myself, too. These were neighbors, after all, but we've been pretty content just to keep to our own cul-de-sac and not meet the others.
After a while, she asked, "How many streets do you think we can hit?"
Girl, it's cold outside. And I'm all for your becoming who God made you to be, but I also have to get home and make dinner tonight.
Then, a young man opened his door. Maybe 19 or 20 years old. He was well-pierced. That is, oft-pierced. That is, pierced all over. If only Gemma had made some stud earrings, too.
She gave her intro.
He paused. Smiled, and said, "No thank you."
What? What kind of jerk can't find a quarter to buy some soap from this kid? Man. . .
Bryan has promised to take her to a flea market this summer to sell earrings. I doubted him at first, as I've never been to a flea market and as I think of them as. . .unsuitable for children. Or something.
Bryan says he set up shop at markets all the time in his youth. His Mom would drop him off in the morning and get him at night. Huh. I did not know this about my husband: That he is that type.
Gemma has since used her own money to buy more supplies, so that when she turns a profit this summer, it will be an actual profit, and not money-made-by-selling-stuff-Mom-paid-for.
And those kids in Zimbabwe? For each $5, one gets to go to club for the year. Gemma has donated $57 to them. Thank God for all types.
Gemma loves Awana. So, when our club announces that we are raising money to "adopt" a club in Zimbabwe--I know, it is surprising that Mugabe's regime permits Awana!-- Gemma sets off on a mission.
In general, she likes to earn money. She thinks often about what kind of business she can start (right now), and how the businesses and zoos and movie theaters around her make their money. But to make money so that kids in Zimbabwe can do Awana, too? She's just thrilled.
Her mother: less so.
I come from a family of salespeople, so I know the type. But I am not the type. Asking people for money makes me nervous.
Couldn't Gemma just be content to earn money by doing jobs around the house?
No. I think she is the type.
I wrestled with this, folks. Really prayed a lot about it. About why the prospect of her going door to door made me sick to my stomach. But God pointed out that this is something He has woven into her person, and I have to let her live that out.
Sigh. . .But then. . .she made something more than bookmarks, something besides soaps (which were kind of pretty). . .she made earrings.
Beautiful, well-crafted earrings. Hmm. If priced right. . .
We made a little display board from Bryan's old black trousers, a cardboard box and ribbon wrapped around from which the fish hook earrings could dangle.
She loaded that, plus the soaps and book marks into her baby doll stroller, donned her red Sparkie vest, gathered money to make change and even took along a pen and paper in case someone wanted to make a custom order for soap. (No such orders came in.)
Ding Dong
"Hi, my name is Gemma and I'm selling these items I made to raise money for kids in Zimbabwe so they can have an Awana club, too. The soaps and bookmarks are a quarter each, and the earrings are one dollar."
One hour and twenty minutes later: $19.50 raised.
House after house--if someone was home--she made a sale. After half dozen of these, she said, "This is going rather well, I'd say,"
The people who answered their doors were so nice. And I was glad to introduce myself, too. These were neighbors, after all, but we've been pretty content just to keep to our own cul-de-sac and not meet the others.
After a while, she asked, "How many streets do you think we can hit?"
Girl, it's cold outside. And I'm all for your becoming who God made you to be, but I also have to get home and make dinner tonight.
Then, a young man opened his door. Maybe 19 or 20 years old. He was well-pierced. That is, oft-pierced. That is, pierced all over. If only Gemma had made some stud earrings, too.
She gave her intro.
He paused. Smiled, and said, "No thank you."
What? What kind of jerk can't find a quarter to buy some soap from this kid? Man. . .
Bryan has promised to take her to a flea market this summer to sell earrings. I doubted him at first, as I've never been to a flea market and as I think of them as. . .unsuitable for children. Or something.
Bryan says he set up shop at markets all the time in his youth. His Mom would drop him off in the morning and get him at night. Huh. I did not know this about my husband: That he is that type.
Gemma has since used her own money to buy more supplies, so that when she turns a profit this summer, it will be an actual profit, and not money-made-by-selling-stuff-Mom-paid-for.
And those kids in Zimbabwe? For each $5, one gets to go to club for the year. Gemma has donated $57 to them. Thank God for all types.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Gorgeous Exercise
The Sunday feature here is Sunday's Somethin'
In this case, isn't this somethin'?:
http://www.mymodernmet.com/profiles/blogs/simon-beck-snow-art
Not sure whether this guy is an artist or an athlete.
In this case, isn't this somethin'?:
http://www.mymodernmet.com/profiles/blogs/simon-beck-snow-art
Not sure whether this guy is an artist or an athlete.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Un-Canned
We have a huge wooden horse in our house. Not quite life-size. Small pony size, really.
It is made of teak, carved in Thailand. It stands with a rope around its neck that is bolted to the wall because if it needs not to fall on anyone.
The tail comes out--its big, black, wooden tail. I had it resting up high, out of reach, because the kids kept knocking it out of the horse. The tip is already chipped off. . .
But then the kids started to keep things in the hole that holds the tail. It's not an anatomically reminiscent hole or anything. But it is a hole. And I was annoyed to find little papers, beads, plastic army men and, occasionally, food in the tail-hole of our horse.
So I put the tail back in.
***
We have been eating pistachios lately. Un-shelled. Which means they are still in their shells. That's the kind of word that drives me crazy. "Un-shelled."
***
[They are delicious, by the way. Now and then, I'll get one that isn't cracked open a bit, one that's completely closed up. It hurts to throw this kind away, but what am I going to do? Crack a tooth to get at a nut that costs about 7 cents?]
***
I was buying a bike once at Sears, the store my Dad requested that we always check first before purchasing somewhere else because he was a career Allstate man and Allstate was a "member of the Sears financial network."
Fine. Bikes at Sears were suitable for my needs: to ride to and from my summer job.
I found one I liked. Good look. Good price. Wrong seat. I wanted a big 'ole 3-speed seat, the kind with big springs on the bottom that really holds the whole rump, you know?
The seat on this bike was a racing seat.
I told the salesman that I wanted this bike with that seat.
He told me it couldn't be done.
I said that of course it could be done. All he had to do was take the seat off of one bike and put it onto another.
He said, "Ma'am, I can't just cannibalize a bike because you want a certain seat."
I said, "I'm not asking you to eat the bicycle. I'm just asking for one of a hundred seats you have available."
He ended up making the switch for me. But I found out years and years later--just a few months ago--that his use of the verb "cannibalize" was in fact a proper use.
So. Shame on me.
Still have that bike. And that very same seat. It rides perfectly.
***
[The use of this word came to my attention when a friend of mine--an Air Force Academy grad--was telling a story in which they "had canned the plane."
"Canned?"
"Cannibalized it, so the parts got sent to be used in other planes."
Huh.
And "canned" also is slang for "getting fired." Oh, the wonders. . .]
***
Our couch is from the first year of our marriage. For a while, it was the only piece of furniture in our household that I had chosen and I've always really liked it. Big. Overstuffed. A sleeper-sofa to boot, which came in handy the night my ankle was broken and I had to avoid injuring it even further before my surgery the next day.
The back cushions are all out of shape now. Frumpy. Lumpy. Uncomfortable to sit against.
So I took them off and stowed them below a desk in our foyer because--think about this--where else am I going to put two giant sofa cushions?
I haven't decided if I will follow through with one suggested re-shaping solution, to cut out the right shape from an egg-carton-type-cushion and fit it into the upholstery. Right now, we have bed pillows in co-ordinating pillowcases and the couch has never been more comfy.
But if I get rid of those two cushions, the couch is ruined forever!
But I can't keep them in the foyer forever, either.
The kids like them, though. They make for a soft fort in the space beneath the desk.
From that fort, they can look up and see our huge wooden horse, bearing down on them as though angry. Or, maybe from down there, it looks like a horse that is happy just to prance by.
It is made of teak, carved in Thailand. It stands with a rope around its neck that is bolted to the wall because if it needs not to fall on anyone.
The tail comes out--its big, black, wooden tail. I had it resting up high, out of reach, because the kids kept knocking it out of the horse. The tip is already chipped off. . .
But then the kids started to keep things in the hole that holds the tail. It's not an anatomically reminiscent hole or anything. But it is a hole. And I was annoyed to find little papers, beads, plastic army men and, occasionally, food in the tail-hole of our horse.
So I put the tail back in.
***
We have been eating pistachios lately. Un-shelled. Which means they are still in their shells. That's the kind of word that drives me crazy. "Un-shelled."
***
[They are delicious, by the way. Now and then, I'll get one that isn't cracked open a bit, one that's completely closed up. It hurts to throw this kind away, but what am I going to do? Crack a tooth to get at a nut that costs about 7 cents?]
***
I was buying a bike once at Sears, the store my Dad requested that we always check first before purchasing somewhere else because he was a career Allstate man and Allstate was a "member of the Sears financial network."
Fine. Bikes at Sears were suitable for my needs: to ride to and from my summer job.
I found one I liked. Good look. Good price. Wrong seat. I wanted a big 'ole 3-speed seat, the kind with big springs on the bottom that really holds the whole rump, you know?
The seat on this bike was a racing seat.
I told the salesman that I wanted this bike with that seat.
He told me it couldn't be done.
I said that of course it could be done. All he had to do was take the seat off of one bike and put it onto another.
He said, "Ma'am, I can't just cannibalize a bike because you want a certain seat."
I said, "I'm not asking you to eat the bicycle. I'm just asking for one of a hundred seats you have available."
He ended up making the switch for me. But I found out years and years later--just a few months ago--that his use of the verb "cannibalize" was in fact a proper use.
So. Shame on me.
Still have that bike. And that very same seat. It rides perfectly.
***
[The use of this word came to my attention when a friend of mine--an Air Force Academy grad--was telling a story in which they "had canned the plane."
"Canned?"
"Cannibalized it, so the parts got sent to be used in other planes."
Huh.
And "canned" also is slang for "getting fired." Oh, the wonders. . .]
***
Our couch is from the first year of our marriage. For a while, it was the only piece of furniture in our household that I had chosen and I've always really liked it. Big. Overstuffed. A sleeper-sofa to boot, which came in handy the night my ankle was broken and I had to avoid injuring it even further before my surgery the next day.
The back cushions are all out of shape now. Frumpy. Lumpy. Uncomfortable to sit against.
So I took them off and stowed them below a desk in our foyer because--think about this--where else am I going to put two giant sofa cushions?
I haven't decided if I will follow through with one suggested re-shaping solution, to cut out the right shape from an egg-carton-type-cushion and fit it into the upholstery. Right now, we have bed pillows in co-ordinating pillowcases and the couch has never been more comfy.
But if I get rid of those two cushions, the couch is ruined forever!
But I can't keep them in the foyer forever, either.
The kids like them, though. They make for a soft fort in the space beneath the desk.
From that fort, they can look up and see our huge wooden horse, bearing down on them as though angry. Or, maybe from down there, it looks like a horse that is happy just to prance by.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Friday's Flashback
The Friday Feature on my humble blog will be a re-posting of the key entries to my blog called "The Big C," where I chronicled our whole experience with breast cancer.
I'm re-posting because
a) I have wanted for some time to make a leaner version of that material for the sake of someone else who might profit from the journey. After enough Friday's, I'll have one.
b) I have made many new friends since the whole cancer thing, and they ask questions about it, having not read the blog or walked that journey with me. So now's their chance.
c) It's a pretty great story. No reason not to re-tell it.
Where it began in print: An e-mail to my family members, which I dreaded having to write, but which had to be written.
June 11, 2009
Subject: Important News
Hello Everyone
The following is not good news, and I'm sharing it over e-mail so as not to repeat the same conversation 6 times (though I did just talk with Mom and Dad on the phone).
I have breast cancer.
I found a lump on the right side, near the arm pit. Went in to have it checked last Thursday. That nurse practitioner ordered an ultra sound and mammogram right away, which I did that same morning.
The radiologist read it right there and ordered a biopsy and MRI, which I just did this morning at the Air Force Academy. All of which is a very good start to my next hilarious book, the working title of which is "The Cancer Chronicles."
(Featuring the following story from this morning's biopsy:
The doctor was about to stick the needle in to give me the numbing lydocain when he stopped and said, "You know, I don't think you do, but I have to ask. Do you have implants?"
You don't think I do? What was the give-away, doc?)
They are expediting the biopsy results so that we'll get them tomorrow. I should say here that it's not official yet. But the nurse practitioner is right now setting up a surgical consult for me so that when the results arrive, I can meet with the surgeon immediately.
The radiologist and biopsy guy both did things that indicated how concerned they were--e.g. ordering an MRI along with the biopsy instead of waiting for biopsy results first, which is the usual, and taking 8 samples instead of 6--so I asked the nurse what the warning bells were that were causing so much concern. The lump is irregular in shape, it casts a shadow and calcification spots showed up on the mammo. And it's on a lymph node.
I feel confident that I'm in good hands, and am very thankful they are all working so quickly on my behalf. I haven't said anything to you all this week because I didn't see the need to cause needless concern. But now I might well go into surgery by Friday night/sometime this weekend, and with the kids at Betsy's (she took them for the whole day), now is a good time to write this e-mail.
I will surely keep you all posted on the results tomorrow and the surgeon's consult.
Most importantly, I have to tell you about the amazing week between last Thursday--when I thought they'd tell me this was just a swollen lymph node--to today.
It has been the most joyful week of my life. Truly. The first day or so, I was fraught with all the typical emotions we'd expect. But starting with the church service we went to on Saturday night and continuing on without interruption, God has been pouring joy and peace on me.
Not coincidentally, this is our Vacation Bible School week--for Gemma and Josh, and for me as I've been leading games for the little ones. Every morning I've been surrounded by dear friends, and worship songs that remind me of God's power and His faithfulness.
And as I've prayed, and as Bryan has, and Betsy, too, the answer back has been repeatedly that there are trials ahead, but that this isn't going to kill me, and that God will bring mighty blessings out of it.
So, in this way, it's a pretty exciting time for us.
I know that not all of you can relate to what I've described. But I tell you about it in the hope that it will lessen your concern for me. I am in Good and Loving Hands. :)
I'm cutting and pasting a prayer that my dear friend, Mandy, offered for me because
a) it made me laugh and
b) it reminds me of the wonderfully supportive place I'm in right now. I hope it helps you, too.
love
Amella!
Dear God,
Lord, this really sucks!! Praise You for being Sovereign over all things.
Amy is your most precious daughter, the Apple of Your eye! Her life is an act of worship to you and her Love for you is contagious.
God You are always good and we are asking You, in Your Most Holy Name, to give Amy an abundant and joyfilled and Long life!!! Jesus thank you for Amy and what you have already done in her life. We praise You Yaweh for the Wife and Mother and Friend she is and the pure Joy and fun she exudes!!
My prayer for Amy is long life and long boobs... meaning she will see the day when those big girls can be tied around her waist. Thank you Lord. Bless Amy and her family tomorrow and in the coming weeks, and we trust you God. Asking You for Complete healing in Your Name. Amen.
I'm re-posting because
a) I have wanted for some time to make a leaner version of that material for the sake of someone else who might profit from the journey. After enough Friday's, I'll have one.
b) I have made many new friends since the whole cancer thing, and they ask questions about it, having not read the blog or walked that journey with me. So now's their chance.
c) It's a pretty great story. No reason not to re-tell it.
Where it began in print: An e-mail to my family members, which I dreaded having to write, but which had to be written.
June 11, 2009
Subject: Important News
Hello Everyone
The following is not good news, and I'm sharing it over e-mail so as not to repeat the same conversation 6 times (though I did just talk with Mom and Dad on the phone).
I have breast cancer.
I found a lump on the right side, near the arm pit. Went in to have it checked last Thursday. That nurse practitioner ordered an ultra sound and mammogram right away, which I did that same morning.
The radiologist read it right there and ordered a biopsy and MRI, which I just did this morning at the Air Force Academy. All of which is a very good start to my next hilarious book, the working title of which is "The Cancer Chronicles."
(Featuring the following story from this morning's biopsy:
The doctor was about to stick the needle in to give me the numbing lydocain when he stopped and said, "You know, I don't think you do, but I have to ask. Do you have implants?"
You don't think I do? What was the give-away, doc?)
They are expediting the biopsy results so that we'll get them tomorrow. I should say here that it's not official yet. But the nurse practitioner is right now setting up a surgical consult for me so that when the results arrive, I can meet with the surgeon immediately.
The radiologist and biopsy guy both did things that indicated how concerned they were--e.g. ordering an MRI along with the biopsy instead of waiting for biopsy results first, which is the usual, and taking 8 samples instead of 6--so I asked the nurse what the warning bells were that were causing so much concern. The lump is irregular in shape, it casts a shadow and calcification spots showed up on the mammo. And it's on a lymph node.
I feel confident that I'm in good hands, and am very thankful they are all working so quickly on my behalf. I haven't said anything to you all this week because I didn't see the need to cause needless concern. But now I might well go into surgery by Friday night/sometime this weekend, and with the kids at Betsy's (she took them for the whole day), now is a good time to write this e-mail.
I will surely keep you all posted on the results tomorrow and the surgeon's consult.
Most importantly, I have to tell you about the amazing week between last Thursday--when I thought they'd tell me this was just a swollen lymph node--to today.
It has been the most joyful week of my life. Truly. The first day or so, I was fraught with all the typical emotions we'd expect. But starting with the church service we went to on Saturday night and continuing on without interruption, God has been pouring joy and peace on me.
Not coincidentally, this is our Vacation Bible School week--for Gemma and Josh, and for me as I've been leading games for the little ones. Every morning I've been surrounded by dear friends, and worship songs that remind me of God's power and His faithfulness.
And as I've prayed, and as Bryan has, and Betsy, too, the answer back has been repeatedly that there are trials ahead, but that this isn't going to kill me, and that God will bring mighty blessings out of it.
So, in this way, it's a pretty exciting time for us.
I know that not all of you can relate to what I've described. But I tell you about it in the hope that it will lessen your concern for me. I am in Good and Loving Hands. :)
I'm cutting and pasting a prayer that my dear friend, Mandy, offered for me because
a) it made me laugh and
b) it reminds me of the wonderfully supportive place I'm in right now. I hope it helps you, too.
love
Amella!
Dear God,
Lord, this really sucks!! Praise You for being Sovereign over all things.
Amy is your most precious daughter, the Apple of Your eye! Her life is an act of worship to you and her Love for you is contagious.
God You are always good and we are asking You, in Your Most Holy Name, to give Amy an abundant and joyfilled and Long life!!! Jesus thank you for Amy and what you have already done in her life. We praise You Yaweh for the Wife and Mother and Friend she is and the pure Joy and fun she exudes!!
My prayer for Amy is long life and long boobs... meaning she will see the day when those big girls can be tied around her waist. Thank you Lord. Bless Amy and her family tomorrow and in the coming weeks, and we trust you God. Asking You for Complete healing in Your Name. Amen.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Thursday's Thinker
[Update: Roberts won again. He advances to the quarterfinals tonight. Go Roberts!]
A weekly feature here, because riddles are delightful. I think I fell in love with them during my Old English class, when I had to translate a few that were written around 1000 AD.
I thought, "These people are eating onions to survive and fending off annual Spring attacks from Vikings, yet they're still writing riddles? Rock on. . ."
Our first is a classic. It's good to start off easy:
I am greater than God
And worse than Satan
Dead people eat me
And if you eat me, you'll die.
What am I?
A weekly feature here, because riddles are delightful. I think I fell in love with them during my Old English class, when I had to translate a few that were written around 1000 AD.
I thought, "These people are eating onions to survive and fending off annual Spring attacks from Vikings, yet they're still writing riddles? Rock on. . ."
Our first is a classic. It's good to start off easy:
I am greater than God
And worse than Satan
Dead people eat me
And if you eat me, you'll die.
What am I?
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
J Day
[Quick update before today's post: Roberts The Boxer--see earlier posts--won his first round by knockout. His next bout is tonight.]
Joshua is 5 1/2 now.
(At which age did we stop counting the fractional parts? The same age we decided that a nap in the middle of the day was a good idea?)
A few weeks ago, we had our dog neutered. This required Benziger to wear an E-Collar, as described on our vet receipt. The "E"--improbably--stands for "Elizabethan."
But our dog didn't look Shakespearean, or otherwise noble. He looked. . .uncomfortable. And decidedly helpless, which is the point of the collar.
One evening, Bryan and I were in our family room when we heard a wretched, piercing yelp from the dog, followed by Joshua crying in a sudden burst, then running towards us.
He was hysterical. Not funny hysterical. Histrionics-hysterical. What on earth?. . .
He couldn't tell us, such was his crying.
"Are you hurt?" He shook his head.
"Why are you crying?" Couldn't answer.
I thought of the dog yelp. "Is Benziger hurt?" He nodded. Woefully.
"Did you hurt him?" He nodded again, he cried even harder.
"Well, what did you do to him?" Josh resorted to mime. He grabbed two ends of something, as though holding a pole, and then he bit down on whatever was in his hands as though--
No. It couldn't be. There's no way this means what it looks like it means. But. . .what else could it mean?
"Josh! Did you bite his tail?"
Even greater wailing ensued.
How long had Josh wondered what it would be like to bite the dog's tail? Each time, did he think, "No, because then the dog will bite me"? But now--with that collar on--the dog was defenseless.
Or was this the first time he's ever considered it?
Was this something he really wanted to do, or did he figure, "Eh, why not?"
I know I'll think this again, but right then was the moment I thought it for the first: What goes on in that boy's head?
Gemma was not around for this incident. When we told her--girl-child that she is, wiser at age 8, as she figures it--she said, "Ew, Josh, you put his tail in your bare mouth?"
Joshua is 5 1/2 now.
(At which age did we stop counting the fractional parts? The same age we decided that a nap in the middle of the day was a good idea?)
A few weeks ago, we had our dog neutered. This required Benziger to wear an E-Collar, as described on our vet receipt. The "E"--improbably--stands for "Elizabethan."
But our dog didn't look Shakespearean, or otherwise noble. He looked. . .uncomfortable. And decidedly helpless, which is the point of the collar.
One evening, Bryan and I were in our family room when we heard a wretched, piercing yelp from the dog, followed by Joshua crying in a sudden burst, then running towards us.
He was hysterical. Not funny hysterical. Histrionics-hysterical. What on earth?. . .
He couldn't tell us, such was his crying.
"Are you hurt?" He shook his head.
"Why are you crying?" Couldn't answer.
I thought of the dog yelp. "Is Benziger hurt?" He nodded. Woefully.
"Did you hurt him?" He nodded again, he cried even harder.
"Well, what did you do to him?" Josh resorted to mime. He grabbed two ends of something, as though holding a pole, and then he bit down on whatever was in his hands as though--
No. It couldn't be. There's no way this means what it looks like it means. But. . .what else could it mean?
"Josh! Did you bite his tail?"
Even greater wailing ensued.
How long had Josh wondered what it would be like to bite the dog's tail? Each time, did he think, "No, because then the dog will bite me"? But now--with that collar on--the dog was defenseless.
Or was this the first time he's ever considered it?
Was this something he really wanted to do, or did he figure, "Eh, why not?"
I know I'll think this again, but right then was the moment I thought it for the first: What goes on in that boy's head?
Gemma was not around for this incident. When we told her--girl-child that she is, wiser at age 8, as she figures it--she said, "Ew, Josh, you put his tail in your bare mouth?"
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
The Fighter Still Remains
I would not have guessed this, but boxers taper as swimmers do. In his last week before the tournament, Roberts went for a short run in the morning, and then met a coach for a workout in the evening. By Thursday, though, he had shut the energy valves all together.
Before his arrival, I'd had the impression that this elite athlete would be among us, training for hours on end and consuming mass quantities of food. Instead, there was an elite athlete among us who read a lot, napped each afternoon, and chatted about his family, my family and, as his week of weight-watching progressed, all the food he would eat back in Chicago after the tournament. Portillos. Nina's steak house. Giordano's stuffed pizza. Poor guy.
And we talked more about boxing:
Does he know most of the guys he'll be competing against in this tournament?
Yeah, most of them. And they know him.
Does the posturing start right there in the hotel lobby while they're all registering for the event? You know, like the swagger and the stink eye and staring guys down?
No. They usually shake hands (he mimes the hand-grip-pull-in-for-a-man-brother-hug) and say 'How you doin'?' and stuff. And then in the ring, they just fight.
Are there any competitors he just can't stand?
No, he likes them all well enough. Sometimes they'll want to be friends on Facebook. Robert says, "They try to 'friend' me, and I'm like, 'The extend of our relationship is that we punch each other,' but they're all good enough guys."
Does he feel acclimated?
Yes, he can tell a big difference from his first run here. Not all the competitors will have had the opportunity to acclimate, so his strategy will be to hit the gas right away and get the other guy winded.
(The fights are 3 rounds of 3 minutes each, which doesn't seem long to me. But in the ring, I'll bet "early" feels "early" and the "later" feels a lot later.)
I asked him if he was well known, if he was a guy to watch out for.
He's modest. Not enamored with himself. But a record is a record, and his is pretty notable. Yeah, guys know who he is, and that he's "heavy-handed."
Huh?
"They tell me that. I'm real heavy-handed, like my punch just goes right through them. Some guys are heavy-handed like that--just the physiology and the bone structure" (and the technique, I'm thinking) "makes the punch just plow hard. Some guys they call 'feather-fisted,' because the punches just don't land hard."
How could someone feather-fisted even compete? A point is a point, I guess, regardless of how much the opponent feels it.
Hey. "Heavy-handed," I'm going to add that to the List on our List page. Check it out. The tab is at the top.
Roberts liked our dog, Benziger. He's small. (The dog, not Roberts, who is 6'3.) But he's confident. (The dog, not. . .oh, well, yes, both of them.)
Benziger barked at Roberts when we first came in the door from the airport. One bark. Pause. Another bark. Pause. Another. And so on for a couple minutes.
The dog followed our guest down to his room in the bathroom and instead of following me back up as Benziger always does, he stayed there watching Roberts. Kept poking his head around the corner to see him, Roberts reported, and then darting back whenever Roberts turned to look.
Good dog. Keep an eye on that guy.
The kids liked Roberts, too. There wasn't any wrestling or horsing around--I do believe Josh could injure someone--but there was something about him that the kids appreciated. Gemma made him an elaborate birthday card. Josh burst into tears when told that Roberts would be leaving the next day.
And Bryan liked having him visit as well. Didn't get to talk with him as much, but enjoyed his company when he could.
We had a bit of time to use before he was to leave with Bryan to check in at his hotel and tournament. And we used it to watch an episode of Seinfeld, of which Roberts is also a huge fan.
(It was the one where Kramer gets a rooster and names it 'Little Jerry' and ends up training it for a cock fight. Roberts and I were laughing the whole time. Bryan came in at the end, saw Jerry holding up mits for the rooster to peck at during its training session and said, "Cocks fight with their feet. This is ridiculous," and that is why Bryan a) hates the show and b) ruins it for the rest of us but also c) demonstrates his devotion to me in that he is the one who bought me the deluxe box set of the series when it was half off at Best Buy.)
It was time for him to go, and we prayed for him. Roberts is a Christian. These were prayers he appreciated.
I am writing this post on Saturday, but it will not go up until Tuesday, by which time, Roberts will have already fought at least once. I intend to keep you posted on his results.
But in the meantime, let me tell you the highlight of my week with this person:
He decided he wants to try acting. He's got plans for boxing, hopes for going professional, other hopes for expanding his business as a personal trainer. But he wants to try acting.
He took a class at Second City and decided he liked it. He was able to get some nice head shots. He's ready to start seeking agent representation.
And all this was my highlight because it was just so inspiring. Why not? You like acting? You've always wanted to try acting? Then why wouldn't you go ahead and try acting?
I had been thinking for months now that I really wanted to blog again.
"But this."
"But that."
"But. . . "
And then: Why not?
Before his arrival, I'd had the impression that this elite athlete would be among us, training for hours on end and consuming mass quantities of food. Instead, there was an elite athlete among us who read a lot, napped each afternoon, and chatted about his family, my family and, as his week of weight-watching progressed, all the food he would eat back in Chicago after the tournament. Portillos. Nina's steak house. Giordano's stuffed pizza. Poor guy.
And we talked more about boxing:
Does he know most of the guys he'll be competing against in this tournament?
Yeah, most of them. And they know him.
Does the posturing start right there in the hotel lobby while they're all registering for the event? You know, like the swagger and the stink eye and staring guys down?
No. They usually shake hands (he mimes the hand-grip-pull-in-for-a-man-brother-hug) and say 'How you doin'?' and stuff. And then in the ring, they just fight.
Are there any competitors he just can't stand?
No, he likes them all well enough. Sometimes they'll want to be friends on Facebook. Robert says, "They try to 'friend' me, and I'm like, 'The extend of our relationship is that we punch each other,' but they're all good enough guys."
Does he feel acclimated?
Yes, he can tell a big difference from his first run here. Not all the competitors will have had the opportunity to acclimate, so his strategy will be to hit the gas right away and get the other guy winded.
(The fights are 3 rounds of 3 minutes each, which doesn't seem long to me. But in the ring, I'll bet "early" feels "early" and the "later" feels a lot later.)
I asked him if he was well known, if he was a guy to watch out for.
He's modest. Not enamored with himself. But a record is a record, and his is pretty notable. Yeah, guys know who he is, and that he's "heavy-handed."
Huh?
"They tell me that. I'm real heavy-handed, like my punch just goes right through them. Some guys are heavy-handed like that--just the physiology and the bone structure" (and the technique, I'm thinking) "makes the punch just plow hard. Some guys they call 'feather-fisted,' because the punches just don't land hard."
How could someone feather-fisted even compete? A point is a point, I guess, regardless of how much the opponent feels it.
Hey. "Heavy-handed," I'm going to add that to the List on our List page. Check it out. The tab is at the top.
Roberts liked our dog, Benziger. He's small. (The dog, not Roberts, who is 6'3.) But he's confident. (The dog, not. . .oh, well, yes, both of them.)
Benziger barked at Roberts when we first came in the door from the airport. One bark. Pause. Another bark. Pause. Another. And so on for a couple minutes.
The dog followed our guest down to his room in the bathroom and instead of following me back up as Benziger always does, he stayed there watching Roberts. Kept poking his head around the corner to see him, Roberts reported, and then darting back whenever Roberts turned to look.
Good dog. Keep an eye on that guy.
The kids liked Roberts, too. There wasn't any wrestling or horsing around--I do believe Josh could injure someone--but there was something about him that the kids appreciated. Gemma made him an elaborate birthday card. Josh burst into tears when told that Roberts would be leaving the next day.
And Bryan liked having him visit as well. Didn't get to talk with him as much, but enjoyed his company when he could.
We had a bit of time to use before he was to leave with Bryan to check in at his hotel and tournament. And we used it to watch an episode of Seinfeld, of which Roberts is also a huge fan.
(It was the one where Kramer gets a rooster and names it 'Little Jerry' and ends up training it for a cock fight. Roberts and I were laughing the whole time. Bryan came in at the end, saw Jerry holding up mits for the rooster to peck at during its training session and said, "Cocks fight with their feet. This is ridiculous," and that is why Bryan a) hates the show and b) ruins it for the rest of us but also c) demonstrates his devotion to me in that he is the one who bought me the deluxe box set of the series when it was half off at Best Buy.)
It was time for him to go, and we prayed for him. Roberts is a Christian. These were prayers he appreciated.
I am writing this post on Saturday, but it will not go up until Tuesday, by which time, Roberts will have already fought at least once. I intend to keep you posted on his results.
But in the meantime, let me tell you the highlight of my week with this person:
He decided he wants to try acting. He's got plans for boxing, hopes for going professional, other hopes for expanding his business as a personal trainer. But he wants to try acting.
He took a class at Second City and decided he liked it. He was able to get some nice head shots. He's ready to start seeking agent representation.
And all this was my highlight because it was just so inspiring. Why not? You like acting? You've always wanted to try acting? Then why wouldn't you go ahead and try acting?
I had been thinking for months now that I really wanted to blog again.
"But this."
"But that."
"But. . . "
And then: Why not?
Monday, February 27, 2012
A Fighter by His Trade
There's something Romantic about boxers.
Not boxing, per se. But the actual boxers.
The heads slamming back, spit flying out, knees buckling under, wet bodies landing on the mat like small trees felled--that's all. . .too much. . .hurt for my tastes.
But the picture of two men stepping into the ring to do all that slammin' and spittin' and bucklin' and fallin'--it's grand. It's a Big Idea embodied. The definition of Romanticism.
Everyone else recognizes this Romanticism, too, if we judge by the ubiquitous nature of boxing language and metaphor. There's that Teddy Roosevelt quote about victory belonging to "the man in the ring."
The phrases, "Throw my hat into the ring," and "take the gloves off," and "below the belt."
And the Simon & Garfunkle song. (It's going to be in my head all day now. Maybe yours, too.)
[Care to add any references? There is a tab on top of this page titled "Lists," and we can use that page to compile a list of boxing references. Just leave your ideas in the comment box. I'll bet we can get to 25.]
Then, one day, I picked up a boxer at the Colorado Springs airport. Roberts Jacobsons, and that first "s" is not a typo, his family is from Latvia and that's how they do boy names.
No need to panic, Bryan and I are still very happily married.
Roberts is a family friend from Chicago, and he is competing in the US National Amateur tournament this week. The winner of his weight class will have the opportunity to qualify for the Olympic team. He stayed with us all of last week to acclimate to the altitude. Great guy. Very polite guest. Very nice young man.
Very patient with my long list of Questions Any Normal Person Would Want to Ask a Boxer.
"Does it hurt when you get hit?"
No. Well. Maybe if the guy lands a good body shot. But not in the head. It might tingle a little, but it doesn't hurt.
"Does it help if you can get angry right before the fight?"
No. Anger works against you. It helps to get psyched up with a lot of energy, but not with anger.
"Are you scared right before a fight? Especially if the other guy is really big?"
No. The only time I was scared was right before my very first fight. And I'm in a weight class with a max 200 lbs, and I'm 200 lbs even, so there's no one bigger than me anyway.
About the weight: Roberts had to be careful all week. You don't come all this way just to be disqualified for being a pound over. Before his arrival, I thought for weeks about the meals I would plan and the day before, I bought plenty of healthful groceries.
Then the guy got here and was dieting like a girl. . .
He was also battling chronic "sinusitis"--kind of like a sinus infection, in terms of symptoms anyway. moving to super-dry air isn't going to help that a whole lot.
He was using homeopathic nose sprays (no medicine at all, the doping list is long and convoluted and he didn't want to take the chance); inhaling steam from boiling water, putting hot Korean red pepper sauce on his food (the only spicy stuff we had). By the end of the week, he reported that his nasal passages were feeling a lot better.
"What do you think helped the most?"
Honestly, not being punched in the nose all week.
Other questions:
"Do you watch old video of famous fights? Like the 'Thrilla in Manilla'?"
Yeah, sometimes. This lead him to comment on Ali, how he should have stopped his career after that particular fight. Both those guys were in the hospital for 2 months after that fight. 15 rounds in the Philippine humidity. Their gloves--at first just 10 oz--now full of Vaseline and sweat had to have been over 2 lbs each. They were killing each other.
"Wait. Vaseline?"
Yeah, the cut man keeps them patched together with grease and Vaseline.
"Do you have a cut man?"
We don't need them in Amateurs. We use head gear, so you don't really get cut, and if there's any blood, the ref stops the fight.
"So you don't really carry the reminder of every glove that laid you down and cut you 'till you cried out in your anger and your shame that you were leaving, you were leaving, but the fighter still remained?"
I'm kidding. I didn't ask him that.
But now you definitely have that song in your head.
(Part II to follow)
Not boxing, per se. But the actual boxers.
The heads slamming back, spit flying out, knees buckling under, wet bodies landing on the mat like small trees felled--that's all. . .too much. . .hurt for my tastes.
But the picture of two men stepping into the ring to do all that slammin' and spittin' and bucklin' and fallin'--it's grand. It's a Big Idea embodied. The definition of Romanticism.
Everyone else recognizes this Romanticism, too, if we judge by the ubiquitous nature of boxing language and metaphor. There's that Teddy Roosevelt quote about victory belonging to "the man in the ring."
The phrases, "Throw my hat into the ring," and "take the gloves off," and "below the belt."
And the Simon & Garfunkle song. (It's going to be in my head all day now. Maybe yours, too.)
[Care to add any references? There is a tab on top of this page titled "Lists," and we can use that page to compile a list of boxing references. Just leave your ideas in the comment box. I'll bet we can get to 25.]
Then, one day, I picked up a boxer at the Colorado Springs airport. Roberts Jacobsons, and that first "s" is not a typo, his family is from Latvia and that's how they do boy names.
No need to panic, Bryan and I are still very happily married.
Roberts is a family friend from Chicago, and he is competing in the US National Amateur tournament this week. The winner of his weight class will have the opportunity to qualify for the Olympic team. He stayed with us all of last week to acclimate to the altitude. Great guy. Very polite guest. Very nice young man.
Very patient with my long list of Questions Any Normal Person Would Want to Ask a Boxer.
"Does it hurt when you get hit?"
No. Well. Maybe if the guy lands a good body shot. But not in the head. It might tingle a little, but it doesn't hurt.
"Does it help if you can get angry right before the fight?"
No. Anger works against you. It helps to get psyched up with a lot of energy, but not with anger.
"Are you scared right before a fight? Especially if the other guy is really big?"
No. The only time I was scared was right before my very first fight. And I'm in a weight class with a max 200 lbs, and I'm 200 lbs even, so there's no one bigger than me anyway.
About the weight: Roberts had to be careful all week. You don't come all this way just to be disqualified for being a pound over. Before his arrival, I thought for weeks about the meals I would plan and the day before, I bought plenty of healthful groceries.
Then the guy got here and was dieting like a girl. . .
He was also battling chronic "sinusitis"--kind of like a sinus infection, in terms of symptoms anyway. moving to super-dry air isn't going to help that a whole lot.
He was using homeopathic nose sprays (no medicine at all, the doping list is long and convoluted and he didn't want to take the chance); inhaling steam from boiling water, putting hot Korean red pepper sauce on his food (the only spicy stuff we had). By the end of the week, he reported that his nasal passages were feeling a lot better.
"What do you think helped the most?"
Honestly, not being punched in the nose all week.
Other questions:
"Do you watch old video of famous fights? Like the 'Thrilla in Manilla'?"
Yeah, sometimes. This lead him to comment on Ali, how he should have stopped his career after that particular fight. Both those guys were in the hospital for 2 months after that fight. 15 rounds in the Philippine humidity. Their gloves--at first just 10 oz--now full of Vaseline and sweat had to have been over 2 lbs each. They were killing each other.
"Wait. Vaseline?"
Yeah, the cut man keeps them patched together with grease and Vaseline.
"Do you have a cut man?"
We don't need them in Amateurs. We use head gear, so you don't really get cut, and if there's any blood, the ref stops the fight.
"So you don't really carry the reminder of every glove that laid you down and cut you 'till you cried out in your anger and your shame that you were leaving, you were leaving, but the fighter still remained?"
I'm kidding. I didn't ask him that.
But now you definitely have that song in your head.
(Part II to follow)
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Your First Court Appearance
(Part II, see previous post)
Tuesday, 1:30, 3 weeks after the ticket was issued.
You haven't given it too much thought since that productive google search. You know it's going to be expensive, but this won't bankrupt you and your partner in finances isn't upset or even annoyed.
(He's probably thinking that this is a small price to pay to have a wife who will no longer harass him about his speed.)
Two different friends have offered to watch your son while you go to court, but you decide to take the boy. It should be a good experience for him. Especially because you already see in him the makings of a fine lawyer, and if that's the path he ends up taking, then seeing the wheels of justice turn could only be helpful.
You might even see some bad guys. That'd be cool, right?
There were no bad guys. Just a bunch of other people showing up to the courthouse at the same time as you for, roughly, the same offense. Your courtroom is right off the main lobby, so you don't get to walk where any real action is going on.
The room has a lot of oak furnishings in front, like Judge Woppner's, and is filled with oak church pews for seating. Not that they came from a church. But the supplier must be the same. No kneelers, though. . .
You are nursing a sense of dread, still. How bad is this going to be?
But in a spiritual sense, you feel alive. Just this morning, you had been thinking, "What would that be like, to face death, knowing that you're not perfect, haven't lived a perfect life, haven't loved perfectly, haven't grown perfectly? Knowing that there really is a Justice beyond this lifetime? What would that be like to look towards that without knowing that I have a Savior who stood the justice for me?"
You went to this courthouse thinking, "I'd love to tell just one person here about Jesus and what the cross means. Should be easy to get into, right? The whole justice-theme will be in the air. . ."
But you don't. You either don't have the opportunity, or don't make the opportunity, or don't have the courage to pursue the opportunity.
You sit in the front pew, awaiting your paper plea agreement to come back. The side door opens now and then (and your son peeks through and reports that it's "a computer room with two people in suits") and the City Attorneys bring out your ticket with their offer on it.
The whole room of law-breakers get their papers back and we watch a DVD presentation on our rights. Spanish speakers are told where they can view a presentation in Spanish. Korean speakers, too. Hearing-impaired people are not told out loud, but the words are printed on the screen. New Age, soothing, "Everything will work out just fine" music plays in the background until the flat screen shuts off.
You butt into the conversation going on in the pew behind you. Between a father and son, the son destined to campus in the Fall on a football scholarship, college un-named, but you have advice anyway. It's good advice. He seems like a very nice kid. Not what you thought you'd be talking to a stranger about, but you do, anyway.
The CA comes in and gives a lively presentation of how this process works. You have the opportunity to plead guilty to driving with a "faulty headlamp," which makes for 1 point against insurance. The minimum fine for your offense is $120, but it's double for being in a school zone. Then there are court fees on top of this.
In all, you are looking at the minimum penalty permitted by law. If the judge accepts it.
A lady in another pew asks, 'Will the Judge look at the policeman's comments on the back of the ticket?"
What? Comments?!
Your cop made notes as well, that hadn't shown up on the copy you've been hanging onto for 3 weeks. He recorded his version of your conversation with him. He accuses you of being "sarcastic."
Well. This is not an accurate report at all. He left off the part where he smirked at you. Where he used the phrase "just stay at home."
Time for another stand for justice, if it comes to it. If the judge wants to go harder on you because he is annoyed with your comments to this officer, you'll just contest.
Your memory is practically audiographic! You can repeat the conversation verbatim these 3 weeks later and demonstrate that you are a fine citizen, a practically-not-even-guilty citizen. What? Are you supposed to not be permitted to speak to a policeman? This is so out--
You stand for the Honorable Old Probably Retired and Now Working Part Time Judge. You tell your son to stand. Judge starts rattling off plea agreements. Lots of "Yes, your Honor's" and "Thank yous."
"Thank you." Will you say "Thank you" to this judge? Why would you thank him? He seems to have practically nothing to do with this.
Your name is called. Yes, you are pleading guilty to driving with a faulty headlamp. That offense costs $240 in the city of Colorado Springs, plus court fees. $275 total, room 108.
"Thank you," you say. Because he was kind of a cute old man.
Your court appearance lasted 9.8 seconds. It takes a mere 3.5 minutes to pay down in room 108, where their system is well-oiled and cheerful.
You see the football player and his dad on your way out and wish him "luck."
"Luck." Though you don't even believe in it.
Tuesday, 1:30, 3 weeks after the ticket was issued.
You haven't given it too much thought since that productive google search. You know it's going to be expensive, but this won't bankrupt you and your partner in finances isn't upset or even annoyed.
(He's probably thinking that this is a small price to pay to have a wife who will no longer harass him about his speed.)
Two different friends have offered to watch your son while you go to court, but you decide to take the boy. It should be a good experience for him. Especially because you already see in him the makings of a fine lawyer, and if that's the path he ends up taking, then seeing the wheels of justice turn could only be helpful.
You might even see some bad guys. That'd be cool, right?
There were no bad guys. Just a bunch of other people showing up to the courthouse at the same time as you for, roughly, the same offense. Your courtroom is right off the main lobby, so you don't get to walk where any real action is going on.
The room has a lot of oak furnishings in front, like Judge Woppner's, and is filled with oak church pews for seating. Not that they came from a church. But the supplier must be the same. No kneelers, though. . .
You are nursing a sense of dread, still. How bad is this going to be?
But in a spiritual sense, you feel alive. Just this morning, you had been thinking, "What would that be like, to face death, knowing that you're not perfect, haven't lived a perfect life, haven't loved perfectly, haven't grown perfectly? Knowing that there really is a Justice beyond this lifetime? What would that be like to look towards that without knowing that I have a Savior who stood the justice for me?"
You went to this courthouse thinking, "I'd love to tell just one person here about Jesus and what the cross means. Should be easy to get into, right? The whole justice-theme will be in the air. . ."
But you don't. You either don't have the opportunity, or don't make the opportunity, or don't have the courage to pursue the opportunity.
You sit in the front pew, awaiting your paper plea agreement to come back. The side door opens now and then (and your son peeks through and reports that it's "a computer room with two people in suits") and the City Attorneys bring out your ticket with their offer on it.
The whole room of law-breakers get their papers back and we watch a DVD presentation on our rights. Spanish speakers are told where they can view a presentation in Spanish. Korean speakers, too. Hearing-impaired people are not told out loud, but the words are printed on the screen. New Age, soothing, "Everything will work out just fine" music plays in the background until the flat screen shuts off.
You butt into the conversation going on in the pew behind you. Between a father and son, the son destined to campus in the Fall on a football scholarship, college un-named, but you have advice anyway. It's good advice. He seems like a very nice kid. Not what you thought you'd be talking to a stranger about, but you do, anyway.
The CA comes in and gives a lively presentation of how this process works. You have the opportunity to plead guilty to driving with a "faulty headlamp," which makes for 1 point against insurance. The minimum fine for your offense is $120, but it's double for being in a school zone. Then there are court fees on top of this.
In all, you are looking at the minimum penalty permitted by law. If the judge accepts it.
A lady in another pew asks, 'Will the Judge look at the policeman's comments on the back of the ticket?"
What? Comments?!
Your cop made notes as well, that hadn't shown up on the copy you've been hanging onto for 3 weeks. He recorded his version of your conversation with him. He accuses you of being "sarcastic."
Well. This is not an accurate report at all. He left off the part where he smirked at you. Where he used the phrase "just stay at home."
Time for another stand for justice, if it comes to it. If the judge wants to go harder on you because he is annoyed with your comments to this officer, you'll just contest.
Your memory is practically audiographic! You can repeat the conversation verbatim these 3 weeks later and demonstrate that you are a fine citizen, a practically-not-even-guilty citizen. What? Are you supposed to not be permitted to speak to a policeman? This is so out--
You stand for the Honorable Old Probably Retired and Now Working Part Time Judge. You tell your son to stand. Judge starts rattling off plea agreements. Lots of "Yes, your Honor's" and "Thank yous."
"Thank you." Will you say "Thank you" to this judge? Why would you thank him? He seems to have practically nothing to do with this.
Your name is called. Yes, you are pleading guilty to driving with a faulty headlamp. That offense costs $240 in the city of Colorado Springs, plus court fees. $275 total, room 108.
"Thank you," you say. Because he was kind of a cute old man.
Your court appearance lasted 9.8 seconds. It takes a mere 3.5 minutes to pay down in room 108, where their system is well-oiled and cheerful.
You see the football player and his dad on your way out and wish him "luck."
"Luck." Though you don't even believe in it.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Stages of Guilt
I got my first speeding ticket a few weeks ago. 32 in a 20.
A 20 because it was a school zone. And I was speeding in it, if the radar gun is to be believed, which brings me to the topic of this post:
There are Stages of Guilt. I'm not sure if they apply to all guilt, or just moving-violation-guilt. You tell me.
Stage One: Your Gut Tells You That You Are Guilty
You make the turn from a busy road onto a residential road and a moment later see 4 motorcycle-cops lined up, lying in wait. Your foot jerks to the brakes. Your stomach sinks. Your eyes darted to the rear view mirror. Guilty.
Stage Two: Someone Else Points Out That You Are Guilty
That someone else could be your 5-year-old son sitting the backseat, asking 'What's wrong?' because you've just cussed and are now pulling over.
Or, it could be the cop who informs you of the Big 32 and then asks, in a tone that does not bode well for your ensuing relationship with him, "Any reason for the speed?"
Is there any answer you could give that would make this go better?
Stage Three: You Believe it is Classy to Admit Guilt and to Apologize for it, Thinking that Consequences of Guilt Will be Lighter if You Do So.
While awaiting results of your classy reaction, as cop is fiddling with paperwork, you move onto--
Stage Four: Question Whether You are Really Guilty
4 cops? Full time officers? Setting a speed trap for all the soccer moms there to pick up kids from school? You're the tax payers, for goodness sakes! Shouldn't these guys be downtown, arresting miscreants? Pulling over people who run red lights? If they wanted to maintain the school zone, all they had to do was put one of those "YOUR SPEED IS" machines on the road because soccer moms in minivans don't gun it to get the highest number on those things, only the soccer dads do. . .
Yet there you are. . .with 3 more minivan drivers now pulled up behind you, getting tickets as well, you figure. Because writing up a warning should not be taking this long.
Stage Five: Decide to Take a Principled Stand Against Injustice
The whole conversation isn't relevant. Just the good part.
The officer explains that you've been assessed 4 points (4 points!) on your insurance, fine yet to be determined (it's that bad!) with a mandatory court appearance (court?! stay cool, do the Principled Stand thing first, freak out later.)
You say, "You might want to suggest to management that this is not the relationship the Colorado Springs Police Department wants to be cultivating with citizens."
He says, "What relationship is that?" It was with a smirk. It was with one eyebrow up and his aviator shades still on. It is totally OK for you to say the following:
"Oh, I think you know what I mean."
This stage lasts a while. Plenty of mental fuel for it. No one to argue with you as you drive on, having gotten your other child and continued back through the school zone at a sarcastic 10 mph.
You didn't give him the finger on your way out, either, which means that you are even less guilty than before.
Stage Six: Grief
You get home. Your husband gets home earlier than usual. Just in time to see you fall apart.
Yes, you really were speeding and yes you are guilty and it's fine that you got a ticket, but, really? You were going to pick up your kid from school--she only goes to school one day per week!--and you had spent the whole rest of the day getting your other kid signed up for this same program and every other day you're educating them at home and it's not like you were speeding to get your hair done, or to get to the office for some fancy career--and that a**hole cop had the nerve to snap at you, "So you just stay home?" when getting your phone number, can you believe that?--you were just taking care of your kids which is what you do every single fricking day--everything you do is for someone else and you were ticketed for that and you feel betrayed.
The Holy Spirit reminds you, "But for this ticket, you love your life, and there's nothing you can sacrifice that God does not make you glad for." Ignore Him. Something about this tantrum is too irresistible.
Your husband's mouth is hanging open, his brain furiously calculating what to say and not say next. Don't say, for instance, "Have you taken any crazy pills?"
He decides on, "Don't take this ticket personally. You're just a quota."
Stage Seven: Fear
Lose sleep for the next two nights because you fret over the coming court appearance. You know you shouldn't be anxious--you've done breast cancer, for goodness sakes! this is just a ticket!--but there's an authority-pleaser buried deep within you that fears Court.
Decide to google the terms, "speeding school zone penalty colorado springs" --
Oh. Not so bad.
Arkansas, however. Yikes. Potential 1 to 10 days in jail.
But Colorado? You're looking at a massive fine. No beatings. No de-lousing chambers. No fitting for orange jumpsuits.
Stage Eight: Acceptance
You now have a traffic ticket story to tell. Being a quota means you're part of the cool crowd, now. You mentioned your story. They all tell theirs. And they're on your side, too.
A speed trap catching Moms on their way to pick up kids? So bogus. This is why they didn't vote for the bonding issue from 2 years ago to increase CSPD funding. You did vote for it. But now?
Heh. You now see what they mean.
Coming Soon: Your First Court Appearance
A 20 because it was a school zone. And I was speeding in it, if the radar gun is to be believed, which brings me to the topic of this post:
There are Stages of Guilt. I'm not sure if they apply to all guilt, or just moving-violation-guilt. You tell me.
Stage One: Your Gut Tells You That You Are Guilty
You make the turn from a busy road onto a residential road and a moment later see 4 motorcycle-cops lined up, lying in wait. Your foot jerks to the brakes. Your stomach sinks. Your eyes darted to the rear view mirror. Guilty.
Stage Two: Someone Else Points Out That You Are Guilty
That someone else could be your 5-year-old son sitting the backseat, asking 'What's wrong?' because you've just cussed and are now pulling over.
Or, it could be the cop who informs you of the Big 32 and then asks, in a tone that does not bode well for your ensuing relationship with him, "Any reason for the speed?"
Is there any answer you could give that would make this go better?
Stage Three: You Believe it is Classy to Admit Guilt and to Apologize for it, Thinking that Consequences of Guilt Will be Lighter if You Do So.
While awaiting results of your classy reaction, as cop is fiddling with paperwork, you move onto--
Stage Four: Question Whether You are Really Guilty
4 cops? Full time officers? Setting a speed trap for all the soccer moms there to pick up kids from school? You're the tax payers, for goodness sakes! Shouldn't these guys be downtown, arresting miscreants? Pulling over people who run red lights? If they wanted to maintain the school zone, all they had to do was put one of those "YOUR SPEED IS" machines on the road because soccer moms in minivans don't gun it to get the highest number on those things, only the soccer dads do. . .
Yet there you are. . .with 3 more minivan drivers now pulled up behind you, getting tickets as well, you figure. Because writing up a warning should not be taking this long.
Stage Five: Decide to Take a Principled Stand Against Injustice
The whole conversation isn't relevant. Just the good part.
The officer explains that you've been assessed 4 points (4 points!) on your insurance, fine yet to be determined (it's that bad!) with a mandatory court appearance (court?! stay cool, do the Principled Stand thing first, freak out later.)
You say, "You might want to suggest to management that this is not the relationship the Colorado Springs Police Department wants to be cultivating with citizens."
He says, "What relationship is that?" It was with a smirk. It was with one eyebrow up and his aviator shades still on. It is totally OK for you to say the following:
"Oh, I think you know what I mean."
This stage lasts a while. Plenty of mental fuel for it. No one to argue with you as you drive on, having gotten your other child and continued back through the school zone at a sarcastic 10 mph.
You didn't give him the finger on your way out, either, which means that you are even less guilty than before.
Stage Six: Grief
You get home. Your husband gets home earlier than usual. Just in time to see you fall apart.
Yes, you really were speeding and yes you are guilty and it's fine that you got a ticket, but, really? You were going to pick up your kid from school--she only goes to school one day per week!--and you had spent the whole rest of the day getting your other kid signed up for this same program and every other day you're educating them at home and it's not like you were speeding to get your hair done, or to get to the office for some fancy career--and that a**hole cop had the nerve to snap at you, "So you just stay home?" when getting your phone number, can you believe that?--you were just taking care of your kids which is what you do every single fricking day--everything you do is for someone else and you were ticketed for that and you feel betrayed.
The Holy Spirit reminds you, "But for this ticket, you love your life, and there's nothing you can sacrifice that God does not make you glad for." Ignore Him. Something about this tantrum is too irresistible.
Your husband's mouth is hanging open, his brain furiously calculating what to say and not say next. Don't say, for instance, "Have you taken any crazy pills?"
He decides on, "Don't take this ticket personally. You're just a quota."
Stage Seven: Fear
Lose sleep for the next two nights because you fret over the coming court appearance. You know you shouldn't be anxious--you've done breast cancer, for goodness sakes! this is just a ticket!--but there's an authority-pleaser buried deep within you that fears Court.
Decide to google the terms, "speeding school zone penalty colorado springs" --
Oh. Not so bad.
Arkansas, however. Yikes. Potential 1 to 10 days in jail.
But Colorado? You're looking at a massive fine. No beatings. No de-lousing chambers. No fitting for orange jumpsuits.
Stage Eight: Acceptance
You now have a traffic ticket story to tell. Being a quota means you're part of the cool crowd, now. You mentioned your story. They all tell theirs. And they're on your side, too.
A speed trap catching Moms on their way to pick up kids? So bogus. This is why they didn't vote for the bonding issue from 2 years ago to increase CSPD funding. You did vote for it. But now?
Heh. You now see what they mean.
Coming Soon: Your First Court Appearance
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