More Good Stuff

Okay, so where was I? Oh, yes, I think I left off about noon Sunday. In the afternoon, Kaitlyn went ice skating with Dakota's family so I took the boys to Safari Sam's. For those of you who aren't familiar with that place, it's rather like a McDonald's Playland on steroids. The kids love it! Brendan ran and ran and climbed and ran some more. He worked up a good sweat. Alex played, too, just at his own slower pace. Mark came with us, too. I hadn't expected him to since he hadn't slept all night, but he wanted to come along. He was so dusky and in a certain amount of pain. I kept watching him, but he did okay. And again, no ER visits.

Monday, though, he did decide to go in. I guess the pain just got to be too much for him. Or maybe he was spooked by some arrhythmias he's been having. In any case, he had probably the best combination of medical professionals he could have had that night -- Adam and Dr. VanEaton. The doc, always kind and soft spoken, stayed with Mark and watched the monitor, chatting about the kids (his and ours) and other such things, until he'd witnessed the arrhythmia on the monitor and was able to reassure Mark that this isn't one of the kinds that can be dangerous. I went home then, to be with the kids and (to be honest) to sleep. Jason tends to be up far later than me, even on his days off, and he had agreed to go pick him up when he was ready. I was asleep when Mark got home so it wasn't the next morning that I got the whole story. After I left, he chatted some more with Adam and with Dr. VanEaton and decided to try to tough it out without any medication. They let him stay there, just to be near help, I think, and at one point he decided that he couldn't do it. He called Adam, asked for some meds, and was about to get some when he said, "No. If I'm going to this, I have to start now." And he weathered the whole pain crisis without any extra medication.

He's been pretty upbeat since then. He still has pain, of course, but it seems like it has clicked in his head who is boss. He still has to rest a lot, but he has been up and around, doing things around the house and going in to work at the church. He's even talking about volunteering in the ER. I asked him what he would do and he said, "Just help out. Take people blankets, see if they need anything, stay with the little kids when they're getting IVs, that kind of stuff." I think he would be good at that. And I think it would be good for him as well as the patients if he were allowed to be on the giving side of the equation from time to time. The ER staff is eager to have him come help. It's just a matter of working out the details now.

And me? I'm doing well. Thanks for asking! :) I've been writing a virtual blizzard. Just finished another short story this morning, which I must say felt pretty darn good! And I've been spoiled, too. I got a card from my sister Katie with a quite generous check in it for a 90 minute massage. Oh!!!! I'm quivering in ecstasy just thinking about it! (Although I'm afraid I'll be sound asleep within ten minutes ...) Also, my sister-in-law Joellen came over yesterday while I was gone taking Mark to the pain center and cooked dinner, cleaned part of my house, and put together the shoe rack I purchased last week but had stasshed (still in the box) in the closet. I don't do puzzles very well -- unless they involve words! Anyway, I was touched by her willingness to use her time and energy on me like that.

And another thing that made yesterday extra special ... I got to talk to my friend Perri! She's an amazing person, so incredibly busy with a two hour commute (each way) three times a week, a job working with emotionally and behaviorally challenged teenagers, three young kids of her own (all seven and under), and a small farm that she and her husband run. Oh, and did I mention that she's writing a fabulous book? She has an agent interested in her story, but she has to do some rewriting in all her spare time! All this to say that it has been quite a challenge finding a time to chat. But we finally managed to get together for an hour yesterday -- well, as close together as you can get when one of us lives in Massachusetts and the other lives in Oregon! It was a gem of an hour.

I think sometimes about my "ideal life." It would involve a new heart for Mark and private schools for the kids, music lessons, and dance lessons, and fenced back yards for puppies. I would have book contracts and an office (with an actual closing door) in which to write. I would have a house with three times this amount of space so that we're not always jammed in here like we are. And if you can move all this 90 minutes west, so that I can have a view of the ocean from my office window, all the better! But seriously, would I trade all this for Adam and Jack VanEaton, for Katie and Joellen, for Perri, for all of those who make my life so rich? No, not a chance. Not in a million years.

Good Stuff

Hello, all. I thought maybe I should pop back in here after my little hiatus, let you all know what's been going on in our neck of the woods. I'm happy to report that it has been mostly good.

Saturday I went a little nutty at the grocery store. I think the anxiety I get from being low on food in the house is just one of those remnants from childhood I will never quite get over. I always feel like I've been wrapped in one of Grandma's quilts when my cupboards are full. I know full well that sooner than I'd like they will be empty again, but it feels really good to have concrete evidence that for at least a couple of weeks we will not go hungry. Well, since I had the resources, I stocked up, and now I can't even get it all in the cupboards! I had it (in bags) on the kitchen floor for a day, then the overflow moved to the countertops. I've finally managed to squeeze most of it into crevices here and there. Okay, so maybe I went a little overboard, but it won't go to waste. There are worse things I could spend my money on!

Saturday evening I watched Luther. My therapist has told me several times that I need to watch that movie. We've spent much of our time together talking about faith and religion, about fear and guilt and all of those things that have kept me so tied up in knots all these years. I already knew the story of Martin Luther, of course, but I couldn't have found a better way to spend two hours. When he realized what Christ had done for him, what was now OVER, done, gone ... when he let go of fear and stepped out, following his heart despite the opposition of friends and the church ... when he spoke the Truth with love and boldness, the world noticed. And it hasn't been the same since. All because of one man who believe Jesus' claim to be all that is needed to find peace with God.

Sunday I got to go work with "my" kids again. They are such a kick. I'm sure they give me more than I could ever give them. I'm already starting to feel sad about letting them go to "the big kids" this summer. Anyway, we learned about Samson, and I told them how God knew even before Samson was born that he was going to be something special, that he gave him just what he needed in order to be exactly what God wanted him to be. I taught the kids one of my favorite songs from childhood. It says, "I am a promise. I am a possibility. I am a promise, with a capital P. I am a great, big, bundle of potentiality. And I am learnin' to hear God's voice, and I am tryin' to make the right choices. I'm a promise to be anything God wants me to be." That's my primary goal with these kids. If they take nothing else with them when they leave the preschool program, I want them to know, way down deep in their little hearts, that God loves them unconditionally and that they are special, beyond words. If they take that with them, then I am content.

The picture for this post shows Brendan decorating his "person," our craft for the day. I (thankfully) didn't find out until a couple of days later that I wasn't supposed to put staples in the walls. I put butcher paper all along a couple of walls, and Kaitlyn and her friend Dakota traced each of the kids. Then the kids glued on wiggle eyes and belts and decorated their characters with feathers and sequins and good old fashioned colored markers. They had a blast! Doesn't every kid dream of coloring on the walls?!?

And then I went up to the service. You will never believe who was preaching! (Well, maybe you will, depending on who "you" happen to be.) It was our new pastor, who happens to be a woman! She's not a " women's ministry leader." She's a full fledged pastor, side by side with the men. She's intelligent, confident, articulate. She is fabulous. I am thrilled to the tips of my toes.

There's more, but it's nearly 9:00, and I'm tired. I'm getting up at five o'clock to work on a story that has me in its grasp, and it would be nice to get something close to eight hours of sleep so I think I'll wrap this up for now and come back some time tomorrow. I'll fill you in then on our trip to Safari Sam's with the boys and my lengthy phone chat this morning (at long last!) with my good friend Perri and Mark's remarkable decision during his latest hospital visit (last night). Oh, and I have to fill you in, too, on what my sister Katie and my sister-in-law Joellen did for me this week. But not now. I'm going to go curl up with my body pillow. Goodnight!

Thanks, Uncle Sam!

Yesterday was a lot of fun. Our tax return arrived in the morning. We live nearly entirely on Mark's disability and a very small (but still quite generous) salary that our church grants us in exchange for his help with their computers, whenever he is able to get in there. Things are often quite tight so it's not uncommon to hear us say, "When we get the tax return, I want to ..." A good sized chunk has been put away for birthdays, summer activities, and camping trips this summer. And we took care of some super exciting things, like paying off the electric bill, tuning up the van, and tossing some bait to hungry medical billing offices.

But we also went shopping! We all had our lists. Mark got a couple of black boxes with buttons. Don't ask we what they are or do, but they are apparently quite cool to him. I got Kaitlyn a hair straightener in exchange for all the help she gives me with the boys when I have to be taking care of her dad. (I don't know why she wants to straighten her gorgeous wavy hair, but I guess in junior high we all want to be the opposite of what we are naturally, huh?) I'm taking her out this afternoon to finish buying some badly needed clothing. The boys got ... take a wild guess ... transformers! And they're looking for a Wii, the newest gaming system, but they're having a hard time tracking one down. I guess they are so popular that they go out of stores just about as quickly as they come in. (We've been told that we will have to be at the store when it opens if we want to get our hands on one. Yikes! Reminds me of the Cabbage Patch craze when I was Alex's age -- but the dolls were a bit cheaper than what he wants!)

And me? What did I get? Well, I got a coffee pot, since our old carafe is broken and always spills black puddles on the counter. (Besides, it's old, and the stuff tastes like sludge.) I got a shoe rack to hang over the inside of the closet so that we no longer have to step over piles of shoes just inside the door. (Whether or not I can persuade the kids to take the extra couple of steps to actually PUT their shoes in the closet remains to be seen.) I got a bookshelf -- a very cheap one, but still far better than the night stand I've been using as printer stand/bookshelf for some time now.

And I got BOOKS! I have a serious love affair going on with http://www.amazon.com/. I have a lengthy wish list there. (Curious? It's filed under Wish List for J.E.B.) Whenever someone recommends a book or I listen to an interview with an author that intrigues me or I read a book that refers to another book that sounds interesting, I add it to my wish list. Days like today, I pop in there and pick a few. (I make it sound so easy! It's not, but only because I have such a challenge narrowing it down.) Because I don't really care if the book has evidence of being previously loved, I can get most of my books for pennies over the cost of shipping. I spent ... ahem, $50 (yikes!) ... but I got far more for that amount than I could have gotten in any bookstore.

We all went out. I was hesitant, afraid Mark would get sick, but he said, "I am NOT staying home." Kaitlyn commented on the fact that I brought my bag with me. (It contains embroidery and a book and a notebook, etc.) I didn't tell her that I truly expected Mark would be in the hospital before the end of the evening. We were out for hours, but he did fine. I was rather thrilled when we all made it home together. Today, he doesn't feel well. He's completely exhausted and will probably be in bed most of the day. But we went out all together! And no one landed in the hospital. I'd say it was a darn good day.

Unearthing My Talent

A friend told me recently that she has "lived in poetry for forty years." That struck me. How do you live "in" poetry? Since then, I have realized what she meant. Giving myself permission to be what I was meant to be -- and to do it with my whole heart -- I have found myself buoyed by my chosen craft of writing. It's not something I do; it's something I am. I feel that I have walked into a house and, finding myself at home, have no desire to leave.

So how is this different from all the writing I have done over the years? Well, first of all, I always had such guilt about allowing myself to indulge in my "hobby," feeling that it took away from my primary duties. Besides, if it gave me such pleasure, it couldn't be a good thing, could it? I have since rejected all of that. I think of the parable of the talents (Matthew 25:14-30). Most people who wander in here know this story already, but for the sake of those who may not, I'll tell an abbreviated version here:

A wealthy man went on a journey and left his money in the care of three servants. To one, he gave five coins, to another two, and to another one. He was thrilled when he returned and found that the first two servants had put his money to use and doubled it. However, he was annoyed (to put it lightly) when he found out that the third servant had done nothing with his money. In fact, he had buried it in the ground.
"Why did you do that?" the man asked. "You could have at least put it in the bank where it would have drawn interest!"
The servant replied (basically), "I was afraid of you."

That has been my theme song my whole life to date -- fear. I have buried my coin in a hole in the ground out of fear. Nothing more, nothing less. I have always felt that it is impossible to please God, so the best thing I can do is keep as quiet as possible and stay out of his way. I'm realizing how incredibly wrong I've had it all along. I have realized that God sees me as I see my children-- as a work in process. Off of my kitchen, I have three doors. One leads to the garage, one to the bathroom, and one to the pantry/game closet. Each of the kids has a door where I hang up their art work, awards, etc. Kaitlyn's work is by far the most sophisticated, but does that mean I think she is a better person for being able to draw a portrait or write a poem while Brendan's door is covered with stick figures and blocky letters, scratched on the page? No! I am equally thrilled with Brendan's efforts because he is doing the best he can for the stage that he is at. That's all God asks of us. THAT'S ALL!

I have to be honest with you though. There has been another aspect to my hesitation to pour myself into my writing. I know from far too much experience that the Christian community is not kind to those who color outside the lines. I have been only minimally effective in my writing (and my life) because I was trying so hard to stay within the lines. The stories in my head, however, are not pretty. They don't fit on a coloring book page, neat pink and blue pastels creating a soothing picture for the viewer. No, the pictures in my head are blood red and charcoal black -- and they don't fit inside the lines. I know what's coming. I know all too well. But I cannot keep the pictures inside anymore.

Thoughts of the prophets console me. They spoke the truth, in no uncertain terms, and they were often misunderstood and rejected. And yet they stood their ground, regardless of the personal consequences. And truth prevailed. May God grant that it be so with me.

A Good Day

Today was a wonderfully uneventful day. Mark isn't feeling well, but he isn't feeling terrible either. He managed to go into work for a bit this morning. I dropped him off after I took Bren to preschool and went to Cornerstone to work on a short story over coffee. After I got home, I alternated playing with/caring for Brendan and working on getting some of my children's manuscripts ready for the mail. An afternoon walk with Becca (which left us quite cold and wet) helped me shift gears to the evening tasks -- dinner and clean up and Yahtzee with the boys. (Kaitlyn was out with her friends.) Then ... this! Writing email and blogging and soon, a half hour or so with Kate Chopin. Nothing much to talk about, but sometimes "nothing" can be just about right!

Another Day

We were in the ER again yesterday. Mark apparently had some kind of reaction to what seemed like such a miracle cocktail last night. He started feeling unwell in the middle of the night and by late morning he was practically crawling out of his skin. We called his doctor's office, and they said (of course), "Go to the ER." After I took him home four hours later, he fell asleep in his desk chair. Every time I looked in on him, he would be sitting there, curled up in various positions in his chair. He said it was more comfortable than the bed. He woke up about the time I decided to retire to the couch. I know he was still (again?) in his chair when Brendan wet the bed at 2 a.m., but by 5:30, when I got up for good, he was at last in bed. This morning ... he seems fine. And so it goes.

Hope -- Toxin or Remedy?

I've decided that hope is rather like the digoxin Mark takes to strengthen the contractions of his heart. This medication, which come from a highly toxic plant called digitalis lanata, is administered in tiny tablets and must be closely monitored. Give him too little and his heart failure could worsen. Give him too much ... sayonara, big boy!

We play this game with hope, too, these days. I try to keep my feet firmly planted on the ground, to allow myself to look forward, yes, but only to those things that are potentially within reach -- a camping trip at the beach, for instance. That's my goal for this summer, to get my family to a cabin for a couple of night. We gave up camping several years ago when Mark's health started to decline, but I'm realizing that spending our lives cooped up in this town, waiting for something -- anything -- to happen is counterproductive and causes us to resent Mark for that which he cannot control. So I'm making the reservations, in a cabin or a yurt rather than a tent, so that he will have a bed to lie down in. I hope that he will be able to come. If he cannot, then he cannot. That is about the extent of how much hope I can safely allow myself these days.

Yesterday I had to take him to the hospital again, but when I went to pick him up three hours later, he looked great! Dr. Junn had tried something new. He thinks that maybe the pain is being caused by excess fluid going to his liver rather than to his lungs or his legs like it usually does in heart failure patients. So instead of narcotics, he gave him lasix. He felt fabulous last night, without any ill effects, and my spirits soared. Could it be as simple as that, I thought? Could this be the treatment we've despaired of ever finding? Our whole lives could be different if this is just a matter of adding one more pill! Could it be??? But he woke up at 3 a.m., not feeling well. His body is puffy, his skin itches horribly, and he is exhausted. I'm trying not to beat myself up for allowing myself to hope last night, trying not to say to myself, "You silly, silly girl. You know better than to do that to yourself, now don't you?" I can't help it though. I have to have some kind of hope, something to propel us toward the future. The fat lady ain't singing just yet ...

New Beginnings

I've decided that being old is a state of mind -- and my mind is apparently quite aged. I went to my cousin's wedding this weekend, and it was a lovely affair. Stacey was so beautiful and glowing, and Logan alternated between teary adoration and button popping glee. I am truly so happy for them. Personally, however, I couldn't get caught up in the fairy tale. I kept thinking of my own wedding and the long road since, of the wide stretch between what little girls dream of and what real life is all about. Don't get me wrong. I firmly believe in marriage. I think healthy marriages and families are the bedrock of a strong society. But ... I don't know what I'm trying to say tonight. I guess only that sometimes the little girl in me still wants to believe in fairy tales. And I feel very old when I have to remind that little girl that there is no such thing.

One part of the wedding, however, got me at my core. Logan danced with his mother. Then he danced with his other mother. See, Logan is adopted. He found his birth mother recently, and she was there to see him start his own life, to dance with him at his wedding. As they were up on stage, just the two of them, she took his face in her hands and they both cried. I can only imagine how she must have felt all those years, wondering where her baby was, if he was happy, if she had done the right thing. What feelings must have been rushing through her heart as she danced with her son? Because mother love ... well, it trumps all else. While weddings may have lost their sparkle to me, a dance between a mother and her son, years of pain and regret set aside, the future open to them... now that stirs my soul.

Airports, Bistros and More

I went with Brendan and his class to the local small airport. I was alternately amused and annoyed at people's reaction to the rain. Or rather, overreaction, it seemed to me. I felt like getting up on a soapbox and saying, "Excuse me, people! This is Oregon. It rains here. A lot. Shut up or move out!" But of course I didn't -- well, not very loudly anyway!

The kids got to sit in a little two seater (I'm afraid I didn't catch the name of the plane.), but they were rushed through because the line was standing out in the rain, except those who were fortunate enough to be close enough to be sheltered by the wing. It wasn't the greatest field trip I've been on. Not by a long shot. But I'm glad Brendan got to see the planes up close.

On a completely different note, yesterday I got to go on a real date with my honey! The church offers free childcare once a month, and we had a gift certificate to Bistro Maison, a really nice French restaurant in town. I made reservations and kept my fingers crossed that Mark would be well enough to go. He was. The food was wonderful (of course), and it was so relaxing to just sit and chat without the kids. It amazes me sometimes how far Mark and I have come, individually and as a couple, since this time last year. While Mark still hedges around things that are difficult for him to deal with, our discussions are far more open, far more honest than they used to be. I don't know this for certain, but I think that him seeing me grow and heal after going through the tremendously hard work of facing my fears and questions, seeing me finally start to fit into my own skin has made him more willing to face the tough questions himself. He is at a stage in the process where he is still skittish and unconvinced of his own strength, of his own ability to draw goodness out of the muck. But he'll get there. And in the meantime, I'm really enjoying the glimpses I get into this new, more vulnerable, more tender person to whom I am married.

Not only is he more tender, but he's also becoming more romantic. I was getting dressed for the evening, finishing off the outfit with jewelry, when he handed me a small box. I opened it to find a lovely necklace with a red heart and a silver key. Of course, I put it on right away. I love it! I really do. But I love even more that he thought of me, that he bought it for me, just because. While the whole evening was enjoyable, that gesture was the best part of all.

A Day for Love

I've been trying to write something optimistic, something inspirational about love being more than chocolates and roses and blah blah blah, and it's just not coming out. Oh, don't get me wrong! I think love is about a lot more than the silly froufrous the People in Charge of Sucking our Wallets Dry have made us believe are required for romance. But even though I believe it, I can't quite get myself to feel upbeat today. That said, yesterday was, ironically, one of my better Valentine's Days to date for a simple reason: Mark and I are finally looking at each other, all expectations of what we "should" be stripped away. We are finally allowing ourselves and each other to be who we actually are.

We spent the morning going up to OHSU for a routine visit. We were encouraged to hear that after being so severely anemic, his iron stores have reached capacity. Everything looks fine. Exercise more. Keep pulling back on the narcotics. Keep on keeping on ...

We stopped at a motorcycle dealership on the way home. Mark is planning on using some of the life insurance money his dad left him to buy a motorcycle this summer. (We can't access the money until then.) He is beyond excited about it. He wanted me to show him which bikes I like. I looked around, lost. "Um, the red ones?"

We went out to a romantic lunch on our way home -- rodeo cheeseburgers off of the dollar menu at Burger King.

About the time Alex got out of school, loaded down with Valentine candy, Mark's pain started to kick in. We waited three hours, but it was not getting any better, so after dinner, I took him to the hospital. I left the boys with Kaitlyn, promising that I would be right back, but when I got there, the doc said they were only going to give him a couple of things and then let him go so I stayed -- for three hours. They did manage, however, to get things to a manageable point without narcotics so that Mark was coherent when we left.

I came home, checked my email and my beloved writer's forum (www.pw.org/speakeasy), looked over one of my own stories just for the heck of it, cleaned the kitchen, and went to bed, which I must say felt really good at that point.

Oh, by the way, I gave him a belt for Valentine's Day -- a leather belt with a skull and crossbones for a buckle. He loves it. Told me today that I'm getting better at this whole gift giving business. Yeah, well, I'm a slow learner, but I'm catching on.

The Flip Side

I realized something today. Or maybe I should say re-realized. I took the boys with me when I took Mark to his appointment at the pain center today. Usually we hang out at the McDonald's just down the road, but today we are truly broke. (Now don't go sending money. We have resources kicking in here very shortly. We just didn't have anything today.) So after a short trip to Fred Meyers to buy eggs with random change I'd gathered up (and to scout out the toys), we waited at the hospital. At first they were driving me nuts with their boundless energy and Brendan's highly selective hearing. But pretty soon, as they raced around the parking circle and tried to jump the barriers, they had me laughing.

I remembered how at the beach, I had felt so relaxed -- and yet I didn't laugh all of Friday. I wasn't sad. Not by any stretch of the imagination! But there wasn't anything to laugh about. At home, I am often stretched to my limit, and yet not a day goes by when I don't have a good laugh at least once, often several times a day. One moment, I will be glaring at the kids, using my stern voice and trying hard not to be complete Monster Mom. The next moment, I'll be laughing despite myself at their antics. It's such a paradox. My life would be so much easier without them. And yet at the same time, they add so much laughter, so much love, so much motivation to get up in the morning and keep on keeping on. I can't imagine my life without them.

A Long Day

Today was a rough day for Mark. He's trying not to go into the ER any more than he has to, but he hadn't slept well the last two nights, and he'd been having chest pains since yesterday. I took him in about 10:00, stayed with him an hour, and then took off for my therapy appointment in Lake Oswego. Three hours later, I got back and found him quite nauseated. The pain picked up again soon, but no one came for the longest time. I went to ask for help and was told that the doctor would be informed, but still nothing. Finally, I went out and found the nurse herself. It was a crazy busy day in the ER today, and she was swamped. In addition, she hadn't even received the message that Mark had gotten worse. She thanked me for coming to find her and brought him a cocktail of Atavan and Dilautid and Benadryl. Finally, after he'd been there for five hours or so, he was knocked out cold. Over an hour later, they decided that, yes, they had finally kicked the pain and I could take him home. There was only one problem. He was so out that I had to put his shoes on for him and help him dress.

I've learned a few things in the last two weeks. I know now not to let go of him between the van and the front door and to stick within "catching distance" until he gets settled upstairs. I know now that when he says "I'm fine" but is stumbling all over the place ... he's not fine. I know now that when he talks nonsense, he expects a reply, but pretty much any reply will do since he's not really processing it in the first place. I know now that when he's so doped up, it is NOT condescending to speak to him like a child, to say, in no uncertain terms, "I am going to pick up the kids. Do NOT try to go down the stairs or you WILL fall." (Kaitlyn thought having her mom boss her dad around like a kid was pretty funny. I guess we have to find our humor wherever we can, eh?)

Tonight, when I put the boys to bed, Brendan said his prayer. "Dear God, we bless you. We draw pictures for you and send them to you, and we give you kisses so that if you feel bad, you will feel better soon. Amen." So God is sick and needs cheered up? Hmm...

My Mental Hermitage

I'm going to whine a little so just in case you'd rather not have to listen, I'll pause to give you a chance to grab your coat and slip out the back door. Still here? Okay. Well, I was sitting here this morning, staring at the screen, too blah to write anything productive, trying not to think too much about all the assorted pains throughout my body, trying not to wonder too much how badly life is going to hurt at seventy if it hurts this much at thirty-five (and if I'm even going to be able to muster up the energy to get to seventy). I was thinking about life, about my efforts to put myself out there, to toughen myself up to criticism so that I never, never go under again like I did this July. I'm trying to convince myself that I am just fine the way I am and to heck with anyone who thinks otherwise. The problem is that I'm not sure I believe it myself. And now that I've come out of my cabin in the rock face, I have gotten some "input" (directly and indirectly). Some of it has made me glad to be out in the sunshine, especially when people sidle up to me and tell me things they never would have told me before because I've risked showing them my heart. But other times (many times), I just feel thrashed. I feel like I want to go back in my little hermitage and close the door and write my poetry (which of course I would never send out! Far too revealing!) and just stay there, lonely perhaps but safe. But do I really want that? No. No, of course not. I have to believe that this is like athletic training, that the more I push myself, the stronger I will become. It's just that some days my muscles (the literal and the figurative) ache so much.

Taking the Plunge

I have to admit that I'm not much of a risk taker. I tried to change that some this weekend, and the results weren't all positive. And yet they were, in a roundabout sort of way. I definitely learned more about myself and about my world.

I decided to have Thai food for dinner. I don't even know when was the last time I ate Thai. Oh, yes. It was a couple of years ago when my aunt Kathy took me to lunch. Mark doesn't "do" exotic, and so for years, I haven't either, allowing myself to be defined by his preferences. I went out on a short limb and ordered something with squid, a food I've never tried. Now I can officially tell you that I don't like squid. Should I have stuck with something safe? A guacamole burger with fries? Fried prawns? Taco salad? I could have. I would have enjoyed any of the above. But no. I am really glad I tried something new. The rest of the dish was fabulous, anyway, and now I know something new about myself.

I also experienced nature in a new way. In the past I would have been far more cautious about my climb over the rocks on the edge of the surf. In the past I would have stayed dry! I slipped and fell into the ocean, not just my leg up to the knees. Not a little "oops! how silly" experience. No, I took the plunge. Thankfully my head didn't go under, but everything else did, including my fanny pack containing my camera, my cell phone, and my money. As I lay there with the surf surging over me, I'm not sure which feeling was more dominate: my embarrassment over the man looking down in concern from atop the rocks or my sudden realization of just how COLD the Pacific is in February. If I hadn't gone out on the rocks, though, I wouldn't have gotten the fabulous pictures that I did. I wouldn't have seen mussels still in the shell, clustered together like some sort of tight knit but armored family. I wouldn't have seen the green anemones waving up from the tide pools. I wouldn't have seen the perfect pink shell, which scuttled beneath a rock when I reached for it! (Apparently someone had already laid claim to it -- a little someone who wasn't thrilled with my presence.) I had a fabulous time and ended up feeling more alive, out on those rocks, than I have in a long time. I would fall in a dozen times if I had to just to hang on to that hour.

A Little Respite

I'm going away. No, no, I haven't cracked and boarded the next bus to Timbuktu. I'm just going to the coast for one night. Twenty-four hours. Well, twenty-one hours if you count the time it takes to get there and back. I was given the money and free childcare and someone is going to be on call to take care of Mark, if need be. I am SO excited. I don't even have words for how excited I am.

I'm not anticipating anything major. I just want to go to dinner and then come back to my room, crack the window so that I can hear the ocean and read all of Amy Bloom's first novel, A Blind Man Could Tell I Love You. Then I'm going to sleep without having to keep an ear out for sick people who could need rushed to the hospital and without being woken up by wandering (and possibly wet) children. I'm going to wake up when I wake up and read some more in bed. Or write. Or whatever floats my bubble at that time. Then after the complimentary breakfast, I'm going to turn in my key and go walk on the beach and take pictures. Lots and lots of pictures. Then I'm going to go through the shops -- the little ones, not the outlet mall -- and I'm going to look at all the little knick knacks without having to continually pivot to make sure that little hands are not breaking anything. I might, if I'm lucky, even find the perfect Valentine's gift for my honey. I don't know what that would be yet, but I will when I see it. Then ... home by 4:00 and back to my real life.

I have to say, though, that if America is the melting pot of the world, I am right now the melting pot of emotions. I am so excited to have some time to myself, and yet I feel SO guilty. I know I need to do this though. I know what happens to caregivers who don't take care of themselves. Over time, the caregiver herself will wear down. Her health -- mental and physical -- will show the effects of chronic stress and lack of sleep. By the time the sick person gets well or moves on to the next life, the caregiver is often ill herself, sometimes beyond the ability to rebound. So I KNOW I have to do this, and I am so grateful to those who have made it possible. I just wish I could do it without feeling so guilty. But maybe that's asking for a little too much.

A Lonely Road?

Well, I did it. I came out of the closet. Except ... I'm not gay, so I guess I would have to have come out of somewhere else, huh? Like, maybe the pantry??? Anyway, I submitted one of the short stories that I wrote last month to my writer's group, and I got their feedback tonight. Now I should mention that I've worked with these people for over a year now. A year and a half, even? They have read a lot of my work, but I've kind of held myself back some. Well, I didn't hold back tonight. I had a year long conversation with someone last year that left me gutted like a trout in the bottom of rowboat, and I'm afraid I ruined that friendship with my idiotic flailing while under the knife. But the truth of the matter is, I can't go back to pretending anymore. It's not so much that I don't WANT to pretend. It's that I simply can't. So I gave them my story, which was about a family sitting around after Grandpa's funeral, fighting over the family Bible. They don't want to TAKE it, though. They want to pass it off to someone else -- someone who clearly needs it more than them -- and they end up getting into a fight and Grandma ends up dead. (That darn coffee table corner just got in the way ...) The narrator ends up holding the massive volume, thinking of the family tree inside (a discussion of which started the story), and feeling the weight of the blank lines beneath her name ... The End. (Or the beginning, depending on how you look at it.) WELL ... the other Christian gals were just a wee bit uncomfortable. I heard comments like, "Well, you warned me you have a dark side." "She's just a little left of center, isn't she?" "But you're such a good Sunday School teacher..." Excuse me a minute while I go pull out my hair. Okay, I'm back. Just ... can somebody PLEASE tell me why a person cannot be devoted both to teaching children about God's vast love AND to pointing out the way we Christian tend to destroy each other with our religious arrogance? One gal wanted me to redeem the story. "But you ARE a Christian," she said. She wanted me to put one more line, something that showed that the narrator realized the "truth," how in Christ things don't have to be this way. Put some hope in there. Something. "It feels unfinished," she said. "It IS unfinished. You're supposed to feel uneasy." "Well, I did!" "Good," I said.

Some might say I should find a new writers group, a bunch of people more in sync with where I'm at right now. But here's the thing: I took a personality test once that informed me that my key trait is loyalty (perhaps to a fault?). If I have thrown in my dice with yours, I'm in for the long haul. You may make me tear every last hair off my scalp in frustration, but I will find a way to understand you and make something productive of our relationship. I have a feeling though that the others may soon find that themselves "too busy" to make it to writers group. Sigh. I cannot be different. I'm sorry. I just can't anymore. But I have a feeling this could end up being a lonely road.

Claustrophobia

We were in the ER again last night. Mark tried to tough it out, but after about three hours, we knew we were going to have to go in. I had planned to just drop him off and go home to put the kids to bed, but when we got there, his heart was going quite fast. Not enough to call in a crowd of medical personnel, but enough to be mildly worrisome. So I stuck around -- supposedly just long enough for the test results to come back and/or for his heart to slow down enough for me to leave without too much worry. Well, his heart never did slow down much, despite a cocktail of assorted drugs. Also, the doctors (with Mark's go ahead) have been trying to ween him off of narcotics, to give him relaxants and anti-inflammatories instead, just enough to help him ride it out. It didn't work last night. They finally came in with the narcotics -- and then later a second dose -- before we could finally go home.

I wasn't a very happy camper last night. As much as I love the staff at Newberg ER, I'm really getting to despise that place. To make matters worse, I hadn't brought The Bag (complete with reading material and embroidery) since I wasn't planning on staying. Also, after 8:30, they lock up most of the doors so that I was cut off from my usual diversions -- the cafeteria with its wall of windows looking out over the hills, the public computer, etc. I was confined to his stark white, windowless room or the waiting room or a small stretch of hallway.

On one of my walks around the outer limits of my cage, I stood and looked for awhile at a nook in the corner between the two vending machine. The air hummed like the air conditioner that I used to cuddle up next to as a little girl. I had a yearning for a pillow and one of the white blankets from the warmer... I didn't entertain the thought though. If someone found me curled up between the vending machine and the wall, they probably would lock me up -- literally!

I had an old Glimmer Train magazine in the car and a spiral notebook, so I wasn't completely without diversion. I read an excellent story by an author whose name escapes me now. And I wrote poetry. I wrote a haiku about the sapling in the yard and a very deep piece (hah!) about the experience of drinking orange juice. And I wrote the following. It's not good enough to send anywhere, and is too gimmicky anyway, but I thought I'd post it here, just because.

Claustrophobia

by Jenn

Can death Coexist
with Life?
Angels pace this space,
this edge of the Unknown,
where Spirits are born,
and Torn apart,
consumed and Regurgitated,
despair the bastard Offspring of
Pain.

Hope is
Obliterated,
Buried like nuclear waste,
too Incendiary even
to Allow.

Lucky Me

How do people who don’t have sisters manage? I know many people seem to do just that, but for me it feels pretty near unimaginable.

We went to Becca and Jason’s today to watch the Super Bowl. I must admit that I didn’t really watch much of the game even though I was parked in front of it. Between the kids’ antics and my embroidery project that I have to finish for my cousin’s wedding shower next Sunday (and, to be honest, my complete lack of interest in football), I wasn’t really paying much attention to the screen. That wasn’t the point, anyway – not for me, at least. I just like to spend time with my sister and her family.

So much of life is stressful to me these days. And while I am the beneficiary of several sustaining friendships, all but one of these leaves me feeling at least a little tired when I drive away from a get together. With Becca, that is not the case. Some days I can talk and talk about whatever is on my mind; and while I know that she may not always agree, she will always listen. Really listen. And she cares. But other days, like today, I am simply too tired to talk much at all. With most people, I have to reach down inside for a scrap of energy to come up with some sort of conversation material. With my sister, I don’t have to do that. I spent four hours at her house today, perfectly relaxed (i.e. very quiet). We did talk a bit, but not much. Mostly I sat on my corner of the couch, with juvenile bedlam all around, and just … was.

Does this mean that I don’t ever get frustrated with her? No. I do, on occasion (although not often). And I know she gets fed up with me at times. But she is the one person to whom I can open the front door while dressed in my bathrobe, with greasy bed head and five loads of laundry piled on my couch – and not feel, for even a moment, that she is evaluating my “performance.” I am just me, and that is enough for her. Having someone like that in my life makes me richer than any amount of money ever could.

Sweating the Small Stuff

He didn't mean to do it. Mark was groggy tonight, off balance from all the medications he was given at his most recent trip to the ER, when he slammed into my house of miniature figurines and sent them crashing to the floor. It shouldn't matter to me. They're just pieces of glass after all. But they are also so much more.

I don't have much of beauty that is mine. I delight in my burgundy and lace curtains and in my books. Other than that, much of what I have falls heavily under the category of "functional." These figurines are the exception. I started the collection when I was a teenager and have added to it slowly over the years. My favorite piece, however, is one of my earliest one: a blue and white dutch boy and girl. I love it partly because it is so beautiful in its simplicity and partly because my parents bought it for me on a trip to the Netherlands. Gifts from my parents were scarce: birthdays and Christmas. That's it. There's wasn't money for frivolousness. But this was a "just because" gift, and I've cherished it all these years. And now it's broken.

It doesn't matter really. Once I glue it, I'm sure it will be nearly as good as new. But my initial reaction wasn't logical or adultlike. I didn't do what I should have done and told Mark not to worry about it, that it was just a bunch of glass. No, I got to my knees among my trinkets and cried, "Oh! You broke them!" In a flash of sudden anger, I was unable to heed my own advice not to sweat the small stuff. Truly, it's the small stuff that can make one come undone.

Stepping Out

I’m finally realizing the power of failure. I’ve been so afraid all my life of making a mistake that for 35 years, I have barely allowed myself to live. I definitely haven’t been willing to take any significant risks, because … well, if you don’t try, you can’t fail. Lately, however, I’ve felt extremely claustrophobic, closed in by my own self-imposed sterility. I must either go insane or break free. I choose to break free.

I haven’t taken up sky diving or rock climbing. No, the areas I have allowed myself room to fail are so minute that to many they would seem almost inconsequential. I am almost embarrassed to admit that one of them is my kitchen. I have always told myself – and others – that I can’t cook. Oh, don’t get me wrong! I’ve cooked! The same darn things over and over for thirteen years … And if I dared to make something besides baked chicken or spaghetti sauce, I’d always break out the cookbook. That’s changing lately. I’m allowing myself to experiment, to draw on what I know and to improvise. Being at the end of the month right now, our bank account (and pockets and dresser tops) are depleted. We have to make do with what we have on hand. Last night, Brendan and I created some absolutely scrumptious cookies with butter and flour and leftover Christmas chocolates, cut up into little pieces. Mmm! Okay, so they were a little flat. Next time, I’ll add more flour. But they were so good that I ate … well, actually, I don’t think I’ll tell you how many I ate!

This new attitude is affecting my writing, too. I’ve been writing since I was twelve, but I rarely seem to “get around” to sending my work out. Last week, however, I put together a short story and nine poems and submitted them to local publications. To be honest, as I headed for the post office, I had exactly the same feeling that I have when I’m sitting in the waiting room at the gynecologist’s office. But I did it, and yesterday I spent most of the afternoon researching markets for my children’s stories. Tomorrow those will go into the mail, too.

It’s nothing really – tiny things that most people could have managed without flinching. But they are doorways, each one leading to something just a little bigger. Maybe today I am only baking cookies without a recipe and sticking stamps on stacks of poems. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll try sky diving …