Normal people spent the glorious autumn day outside, enjoying the last days of good weather before winter closes in on us. I spent the afternoon at Strong Hospital enduring an MRI.
No prep for this test, just a ream of paperwork to fill out. Have to make sure there is nothing metal about you! Take off your jewelry, leave you watch in the locker, remove the blouse with the metal beads. Do your shoes have metal inserts? I don't think so.
Surprise! They do! The minute I am strapped into the tray and the weird shaped antennae is belted over my chest, they move me into the tunnel, and it feels like gremlins are grabbing my feet. Out I come, they remove my shoes. My arms are hoisted over my head, they place a bulb in my left hand, in case I need to call for help, and they kindly put a headset over my ears playing the local classical radio station.
"Are you a shallow breather?" Stuart asked me (he was the gentle Asian man running the test). "Well, I am a singer. I generally tend to breathe a bit more deeply." "Take a breath," he instructs. I do. "Take another breath." He seems puzzled. "One more. Ah! You ARE a belly breather. So few people are." He hooks a wire around my belly. "This just lets me know when you are taking a breath. It helps me regulate things."
I am loaded into the canon again, sans metal plated shoes. I panic a bit. The space is very close. The ceiling of the tube less than two inches from your face, the walls are hard, unforgiving. It looks smaller than other machines I have been in, but its the same size. Just the entrance bore makes it look like the space is getting smaller. The test begins. I hear Stuart talking to me. "Breathe in. Hold your breath. Don't breathe." (I make myself count: one one thousand one, one one thousand two, . . . one one thousand fifteen, one one thousand sixteen, . . . one one thousand twenty three) "You can breathe." BREATHE! My lungs collapse in a whoosh of air out, expand in a satisfying air inflation. Stuart says it so casually, as if my lungs were not burning from oxygen deprivation, as if my chest were not screaming 'take a breath NOW!'
Again and again we repeat the pattern, sometimes for 17 seconds, sometimes for 27, sometimes for 12. That was the liver part. Then we move on to the pelvic part. Stuart brings me out and says I can put my arms by my side. He wraps them mummy like with sheets so I won't get a burn if I should accidentally touch the magnet. I can't hold onto any thing. This is a proposition in how long can you hold your arms by your side without resting them on anything. He loads me into the bore.
"No. NO, I can't do this." I yell. Its like being in a coffin. I can't wiggle, I am totally squished. Stuart brings me out. "Hey, I thought you were gonna jump right outta there!" he grins. I position my arms over my head again, he still wraps them in the sheets. Then in I go again.
No holding your breath here, just enduring beeping, buzzing, banging. I am positive there is a jackhammer being used in this tunnel. Or at least an unserviced lawn mower. It goes on and on. At one point, I realized the buzzing is happening in tandem with my breathing. When I exhale, and in the few seconds before I inhale, they buzz. Then I realize I can play games with this one. If I don't inhale as quickly, they can buzz longer. Maybe it will speed things up. And when I need to take a deep breath, they wait patiently until I am done before buzzing again.
We move on to a number of different patterns (Stuart calls them tests). I have been in the blasted tube almost two hours. My shoulders and arms hurt. My muscles are tensing. I consciously make myself relax. I try to "go to my quiet place" but the pain is interfering with my ability to concentrate.
I begin quoting Bible verses. "He has promised never to leave me or forsake me. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me. Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me." Even in the heart of a huge magnet. Even after hours of lying still on a hard surface.
I think of that little girl who fell down a pipe in her back yard, and was stuck there for three days. I think her name was Jessica. She was just little - maybe three years old. And scared. And no one could reach her. I am fortunate I am not in some emergency situation, not facing death, not without knowing that within a short time my agony will be over. I am fortunate I can get this test done. I have the resources, the insurance, the doctor. I refuse to complain.
The final step. They pull me out, and the nurse comes to start an IV so they can inject a contrast solution. No, not IVP. Stuart tells me the name of the substance. Something that starts with a g and is an earth element, not related to IVP in any way. I tell her my veins are small, and she looks. "Yup. But this is by power injection, I can't use a smaller needle, I will just have to get a larger vein. She does! First stick. Thank you Lord.
Back in I go. Stuart's voice interrupts Mahler's Third. "Injecting now." My arm feels cold, then my whole body. I am a bit dizzy and feel faint and nauseous. Stuart is telling me to hold my breath. I do, fearful that I am going to pass out. I want to tell him. I wait to see if it will pass. My mouth tastes funny. Kind of tinny. The faintness is passing. After the third round of holding my breath, I am only cold and my mouth still tastes funny.
This round is for both liver and pelvis. But not so many tests. In a matter of twenty minutes, I am done. Stuart helps me out of the machine, helps me lower my cramped arms, unhooks the wires and removes the antennae and the pads. he helps me sit up, chatting about his daughter's interests in singing, how she wants to be on American Idol. We laugh.
I wobble out of the room, buckle on my magnetic shoes, and wander back to the dressing room, stopping first at the bathroom. I wonder vaguely if the radioactivity from the PET scan will interfere with the MRI. Surely they wouldn't have scheduled them 2 days apart if they did. Well, 2 and a half hours after entering, I exit to the parking lot and the sunny day. They have very thoughtfully provided parking validation so I don't have to pay.
Done. Let's not do it again anytime soon. Thanks.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Saturday, September 29, 2007
The PET scan
No one had given me such a thorough prep instruction as the Imaging Sciences Center sent me for today's PET scan. I had been told before about not participating in any vigorous exercise, not eating or drinking anything for 6 hours before the test.
But these instructions said for the whole day before I was not to have any caffeine, alcohol or carbohydrates. In addition, at the Yale Cancer Clinic, since I am allergic to IVP dye, and since they put their IVP dye in their barium solution, I didn't get any barium solution.
Also at Yale, I had to repeat to every single person I dealt with that I was allergic to IVP dye, and I worried that if I should be unconscious, there would be no one to tell them not to give me IVP dye. Even the oncologist had to be told EVERY time not to schedule tests that require the dye.
Here, the moment I walked through the door, they put a red wrist tag on my arm with an allergy alert on it. AND they confirmed verbally that I had the allergy, and gave me the barium sans IVP. The nurse doing the prep and IV installation told me the reasons why they ask that there be no caffeine, no alcohol, no carbs.
They were very good reasons, and I was beginning to suspect that the tests I had done at Yale had been compromised. Here they also hooked up an IV, something I had not had before. She explained that since the kidneys are always working, as is the heart, they will attract a lot of the radioactive glucose solution. If the ensure that I can expel fluids before the test, it will clear up that area so they can see more clearly. The nurse was attentive when I told her I have very tiny veins - most lab people just grunt and then proceed to have to stick me repeatedly until they can manage to squeeze in a larger needle. Half the time it blows and they need to redo it.
This nurse listened, looked at my arms, then said, "I'm going to get a pediatric needle." She got it easily the first stick. Kudos for thinking that I might know a little something about my own body!
So they tilted back the easy chair, wrapped me head and arms and my legs in warm blankets (which also helps the blood flow and makes the test results better), and tiptoed out. Every ten minutes or so, one of the staff peeked in, checked the IV levels, and left quietly.
I closed my eyes and dozed, my thoughts wandering from children to music to beautiful places I have been. At one point I smiled a little, thinking of that cliche "Go to your quiet place." When I was pregnant and enduring labor pain, the Lamaze coaches taught us to think of a calm beach or a vacation place that we really liked, and visualize being there, experiencing the sensations of that environment (the sound of the waves rolling up on the beach, the sound of the wind in the palm trees, the warmth of the sand beneath you, the warmth of the sun, etc.)
I hadn't thought of that in years, and I cast about in my mind for a place where I wanted to be, someplace carefree and relaxing. I used to think of beaches and mountains and lakes. But now, though I could easily visualize those places, including extraordinary sunrises and sunsets, I found no particular joy and strength in being there.
Instead, I visualized being in my Father's arms, my heavenly Father, cuddled up like a child with my head on His shoulder, feeling His strong arms around me, knowing I was safe. It was the best place for me to be. Too soon the radiologist came to get me, having me stop at the bathroom first.
What a difference their care and attention to details made to my confidence levels! Also, their CT scanner and their PET scanner were 2 separate units, located one behind the other. It was quite clear when they were doing the CT scan and when they were doing the PET part.
As we were finishing, the nurse told me that I would be "somewhat radioactive" for the next several hours. When I use the facilities wherever I am, I need to flush twice and wash my hands very well. And I shouldn't be holding any babies or pets, much less kissing them. Stay a good arms' length for people, and rest assured, it will all go away rapidly.
Well, we shall see if all this additional precaution makes a difference in the test results!
But these instructions said for the whole day before I was not to have any caffeine, alcohol or carbohydrates. In addition, at the Yale Cancer Clinic, since I am allergic to IVP dye, and since they put their IVP dye in their barium solution, I didn't get any barium solution.
Also at Yale, I had to repeat to every single person I dealt with that I was allergic to IVP dye, and I worried that if I should be unconscious, there would be no one to tell them not to give me IVP dye. Even the oncologist had to be told EVERY time not to schedule tests that require the dye.
Here, the moment I walked through the door, they put a red wrist tag on my arm with an allergy alert on it. AND they confirmed verbally that I had the allergy, and gave me the barium sans IVP. The nurse doing the prep and IV installation told me the reasons why they ask that there be no caffeine, no alcohol, no carbs.
They were very good reasons, and I was beginning to suspect that the tests I had done at Yale had been compromised. Here they also hooked up an IV, something I had not had before. She explained that since the kidneys are always working, as is the heart, they will attract a lot of the radioactive glucose solution. If the ensure that I can expel fluids before the test, it will clear up that area so they can see more clearly. The nurse was attentive when I told her I have very tiny veins - most lab people just grunt and then proceed to have to stick me repeatedly until they can manage to squeeze in a larger needle. Half the time it blows and they need to redo it.
This nurse listened, looked at my arms, then said, "I'm going to get a pediatric needle." She got it easily the first stick. Kudos for thinking that I might know a little something about my own body!
So they tilted back the easy chair, wrapped me head and arms and my legs in warm blankets (which also helps the blood flow and makes the test results better), and tiptoed out. Every ten minutes or so, one of the staff peeked in, checked the IV levels, and left quietly.
I closed my eyes and dozed, my thoughts wandering from children to music to beautiful places I have been. At one point I smiled a little, thinking of that cliche "Go to your quiet place." When I was pregnant and enduring labor pain, the Lamaze coaches taught us to think of a calm beach or a vacation place that we really liked, and visualize being there, experiencing the sensations of that environment (the sound of the waves rolling up on the beach, the sound of the wind in the palm trees, the warmth of the sand beneath you, the warmth of the sun, etc.)
I hadn't thought of that in years, and I cast about in my mind for a place where I wanted to be, someplace carefree and relaxing. I used to think of beaches and mountains and lakes. But now, though I could easily visualize those places, including extraordinary sunrises and sunsets, I found no particular joy and strength in being there.
Instead, I visualized being in my Father's arms, my heavenly Father, cuddled up like a child with my head on His shoulder, feeling His strong arms around me, knowing I was safe. It was the best place for me to be. Too soon the radiologist came to get me, having me stop at the bathroom first.
What a difference their care and attention to details made to my confidence levels! Also, their CT scanner and their PET scanner were 2 separate units, located one behind the other. It was quite clear when they were doing the CT scan and when they were doing the PET part.
As we were finishing, the nurse told me that I would be "somewhat radioactive" for the next several hours. When I use the facilities wherever I am, I need to flush twice and wash my hands very well. And I shouldn't be holding any babies or pets, much less kissing them. Stay a good arms' length for people, and rest assured, it will all go away rapidly.
Well, we shall see if all this additional precaution makes a difference in the test results!
Friday, September 28, 2007
Blue Reflections
What is there about PET scans that causes me to reflect on the events of the past few years? I suppose the fact that I have to have these tests because of the cancer, and because every test holds the insinuation that I might discover another episode of cancer has cropped up. Whatever it is, it sets me apart from others who do not have to have tests every few months, don't have to face their own mortality time and again.
I thought back over the chain of events that took me to Illinois, my first direct brush with cancer. I had met Leslie at a Music Library Convention in Las Vegas before I interviewed for the position in her library. She was charming, brimming with love and life, engaging. She and her husband were planning to spend some vacation time after the conference exploring nearby desserts and parks. I liked her immediately.
Before I came for the interview, in a matter of a few short weeks, she had been diagnosed with cancer, had surgery and chemo, and could not participate in the process. I was hired and had worked several months before she was able to return to work, and she was so wanting to be my mentor, to teach me the ropes, to bring me along.
We were headed for a great friendship.
And suddenly, she was back in the hospital, dying. They tried so many medicines, so many interventions. But the cancer had spread to her liver and lungs. Her days were numbered. She elected to stay at home, and we all took turns visiting in the daytime so she wouldn't be alone.
The last time I spent the afternoon with her, we talked and laughed and looked at pictures and celebrated her publication in a newsletter. Finally it was time for me to go back to work. I rose to leave, and she begged me to stay, just for a little longer. I was torn. I was still new on the job, but it was evident that she didn't have much time.
I compromised and stayed a very short time. It was the last time she was coherent. I went several times to administer back rubs and foot massages, but she was so ill she couldn't manage to talk. Her eyes said it all. I kept a constant banter of chatter going about little things at work, and she hungrily drank it in. We both knew time was short.
The next night I stopped over about 7 to give her a massage, but they were bringing in a hospital bed to make her more comfortable. I told Leslie I would come back the next day. She grabbed my hand, her eyes pleading. I knew she was in pain and needed the massage, but I was so in the way that I left anyways.
That night she died. Her husband told me that she became coherent and they talked for several hours, just like the good old days. Her Mom and sister were there. They said their good byes, and she went to sleep. I never saw her again.
When you have cancer, when you are dying, you affect others. I know that quite well. I am concerned about the effect these tests have on Drew. I know he gets anxious about my health - not so much because of what I go through, but because it creates an environment of uncertainty for him.
We have talked often of what would happen to him if I died. He would go to live with my sister Deb, and she would put him in a Christian boarding school. He would hear from his brothers often and spend time with them. But in essence, he would be on his own. I know he would be desperate to know that someone cares about him. Other than God, of course.
Sometimes his behavior tests that hypothesis now. Like this morning. Because my test was scheduled so early, he needed to walk to the pick up place for the carpool himself instead of me driving him there. It meant he had to get himself up and there on time. It meant he had to go to bed early, and indeed, when I got home from choir practice, he was in bed, asleep at 8:45!
In spite of that, he begged to stay home today. Please don't make me go to school. I am tired. I make him go. Much better to be distracted and busy than home sleeping or watching TV. Don't allow the fear to grow. Put your concerns aside. We will not know anything today anyways, even though we expect all the results to be completely positive.
He knows and I know that there is the tiniest little chance that things will go awry. So it throws his mood into grumpiness for a bit until we get the all clear. Sigh. I have to deal with this myself. Hard to also bear in mind that this young man is struggling with big issues too. Go gentle on him. Get something positive to do over the weekend - go see a soccer game, take in a concert (Denver and the Mile High Orchestra). I bought the tickets this afternoon, in between catching up at work since I was rather late getting out of the test, and running to the bathroom from having the test.
Well, tomorrow we shall take a breather.
I thought back over the chain of events that took me to Illinois, my first direct brush with cancer. I had met Leslie at a Music Library Convention in Las Vegas before I interviewed for the position in her library. She was charming, brimming with love and life, engaging. She and her husband were planning to spend some vacation time after the conference exploring nearby desserts and parks. I liked her immediately.
Before I came for the interview, in a matter of a few short weeks, she had been diagnosed with cancer, had surgery and chemo, and could not participate in the process. I was hired and had worked several months before she was able to return to work, and she was so wanting to be my mentor, to teach me the ropes, to bring me along.
We were headed for a great friendship.
And suddenly, she was back in the hospital, dying. They tried so many medicines, so many interventions. But the cancer had spread to her liver and lungs. Her days were numbered. She elected to stay at home, and we all took turns visiting in the daytime so she wouldn't be alone.
The last time I spent the afternoon with her, we talked and laughed and looked at pictures and celebrated her publication in a newsletter. Finally it was time for me to go back to work. I rose to leave, and she begged me to stay, just for a little longer. I was torn. I was still new on the job, but it was evident that she didn't have much time.
I compromised and stayed a very short time. It was the last time she was coherent. I went several times to administer back rubs and foot massages, but she was so ill she couldn't manage to talk. Her eyes said it all. I kept a constant banter of chatter going about little things at work, and she hungrily drank it in. We both knew time was short.
The next night I stopped over about 7 to give her a massage, but they were bringing in a hospital bed to make her more comfortable. I told Leslie I would come back the next day. She grabbed my hand, her eyes pleading. I knew she was in pain and needed the massage, but I was so in the way that I left anyways.
That night she died. Her husband told me that she became coherent and they talked for several hours, just like the good old days. Her Mom and sister were there. They said their good byes, and she went to sleep. I never saw her again.
When you have cancer, when you are dying, you affect others. I know that quite well. I am concerned about the effect these tests have on Drew. I know he gets anxious about my health - not so much because of what I go through, but because it creates an environment of uncertainty for him.
We have talked often of what would happen to him if I died. He would go to live with my sister Deb, and she would put him in a Christian boarding school. He would hear from his brothers often and spend time with them. But in essence, he would be on his own. I know he would be desperate to know that someone cares about him. Other than God, of course.
Sometimes his behavior tests that hypothesis now. Like this morning. Because my test was scheduled so early, he needed to walk to the pick up place for the carpool himself instead of me driving him there. It meant he had to get himself up and there on time. It meant he had to go to bed early, and indeed, when I got home from choir practice, he was in bed, asleep at 8:45!
In spite of that, he begged to stay home today. Please don't make me go to school. I am tired. I make him go. Much better to be distracted and busy than home sleeping or watching TV. Don't allow the fear to grow. Put your concerns aside. We will not know anything today anyways, even though we expect all the results to be completely positive.
He knows and I know that there is the tiniest little chance that things will go awry. So it throws his mood into grumpiness for a bit until we get the all clear. Sigh. I have to deal with this myself. Hard to also bear in mind that this young man is struggling with big issues too. Go gentle on him. Get something positive to do over the weekend - go see a soccer game, take in a concert (Denver and the Mile High Orchestra). I bought the tickets this afternoon, in between catching up at work since I was rather late getting out of the test, and running to the bathroom from having the test.
Well, tomorrow we shall take a breather.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Blowing Up
I rarely get angry enough to yell at anyone. But I exploded at the apartment complex manager. I have lived here three months, and they have yet to fix anything that was broken when we moved in. At first they couldn't seem to manage to come and look at my inventory of problems. Then they assured me they would get to it as soon as the busy season died away. We moved in right in the full swing of moving in for everyone.
Well, the other day, the refrigerator door handle came off in my hands one time too many. Duct tape only holds for so long. I just pure and simple lost it. I stormed into the office brandishing the broken handle and waving my long list of unaddressed concerns, demanding to know what they were going to do about it.
The ladies in the office looked appropriately shocked, and assured me I had every right to be upset. They would get someone on it immediately. True to their word, they came that very afternoon and fixed my fridge handle. But nothing else. Then three days later, I came home late from working my second job, tired. Drew was already in bed. I found a yellow slip on the floor of the kitchen with my list of things that needed to be fixed.
The maintenance man had gone through the entire list and basically dismissed them all, chalked them up to either I didn't know my head from a hole in the wall or else I was too dumb to know how things were supposed to work. I just went through the roof. There was no way I was going to stand for such laziness and incompetence.
So I went back to the office. The manager was there, and I started to show her the list, and to mention that I had not yet been reimbursed for the $100 I was overcharged. She didn't hear a word I was saying. She thought I was insane I guess, and that I was being unreasonable to think that keys should work in doors, that doors ought to be able to be opened, that leaky pipes could be made to stop leaking, that broken cabinets could be fixed.
What level of broken had they come to believe was acceptable? I firmly believe that the rent I pay entitles me to a working and fixed apartment. I could get no where with this woman. I finally began yelling at her. "This is totally unacceptable. I can't get into my building because the lock is BROKEN. I am not some stupid cow who doesn't know how to work a key. Your workman is either lazy or incompetent. Fix this!"
She sighed and began writing a work order. "Look, don't send the same idiot you sent before. He obviously has no idea how to fix things. He can barely speak English. You send someone else. And don't write 50 things on the same work order. Apparently these guys can't deal with more than one issue at a time. Write them on separate orders. Maybe they will at least get some of them done."
I knew I was shooting myself in the foot being angry. I suspected that the result would be my car would get vandalized, my apartment ripped off, etc. by the workmen I was maligning. I was totally aware that there were clients there to look at a unit and I was scaring them out of considering renting here (good). I didn't care.
Problem was, I felt awful afterwards. This was not like me. I don't react this way. What had changed? Why was I playing a role that is not me? Was it all the problems I have been encountering since I arrived and it finally became too much? Was it all the medical testing I knew was coming? Was it all the grief Drew was giving me? Or the car pool? Or the planets out of alignment?
No. It was just me. Not living close enough to God, not listening to His direction, not bringing my problems to Him but trying to solve them on my own. I will spend more time than my morning devotions on my face before God, penitent, seeking. He will fix things for me. He will give me wisdom. There is a better way. He is my covering, so I will stay covered and rest in Him. He will deliver me, I know it.
Well, the other day, the refrigerator door handle came off in my hands one time too many. Duct tape only holds for so long. I just pure and simple lost it. I stormed into the office brandishing the broken handle and waving my long list of unaddressed concerns, demanding to know what they were going to do about it.
The ladies in the office looked appropriately shocked, and assured me I had every right to be upset. They would get someone on it immediately. True to their word, they came that very afternoon and fixed my fridge handle. But nothing else. Then three days later, I came home late from working my second job, tired. Drew was already in bed. I found a yellow slip on the floor of the kitchen with my list of things that needed to be fixed.
The maintenance man had gone through the entire list and basically dismissed them all, chalked them up to either I didn't know my head from a hole in the wall or else I was too dumb to know how things were supposed to work. I just went through the roof. There was no way I was going to stand for such laziness and incompetence.
So I went back to the office. The manager was there, and I started to show her the list, and to mention that I had not yet been reimbursed for the $100 I was overcharged. She didn't hear a word I was saying. She thought I was insane I guess, and that I was being unreasonable to think that keys should work in doors, that doors ought to be able to be opened, that leaky pipes could be made to stop leaking, that broken cabinets could be fixed.
What level of broken had they come to believe was acceptable? I firmly believe that the rent I pay entitles me to a working and fixed apartment. I could get no where with this woman. I finally began yelling at her. "This is totally unacceptable. I can't get into my building because the lock is BROKEN. I am not some stupid cow who doesn't know how to work a key. Your workman is either lazy or incompetent. Fix this!"
She sighed and began writing a work order. "Look, don't send the same idiot you sent before. He obviously has no idea how to fix things. He can barely speak English. You send someone else. And don't write 50 things on the same work order. Apparently these guys can't deal with more than one issue at a time. Write them on separate orders. Maybe they will at least get some of them done."
I knew I was shooting myself in the foot being angry. I suspected that the result would be my car would get vandalized, my apartment ripped off, etc. by the workmen I was maligning. I was totally aware that there were clients there to look at a unit and I was scaring them out of considering renting here (good). I didn't care.
Problem was, I felt awful afterwards. This was not like me. I don't react this way. What had changed? Why was I playing a role that is not me? Was it all the problems I have been encountering since I arrived and it finally became too much? Was it all the medical testing I knew was coming? Was it all the grief Drew was giving me? Or the car pool? Or the planets out of alignment?
No. It was just me. Not living close enough to God, not listening to His direction, not bringing my problems to Him but trying to solve them on my own. I will spend more time than my morning devotions on my face before God, penitent, seeking. He will fix things for me. He will give me wisdom. There is a better way. He is my covering, so I will stay covered and rest in Him. He will deliver me, I know it.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Grumpy Wheelchair Man
I met him again this morning as I was walking to work, this skinny, angry wheelchair bound old man. I wondered if he were a war veteran. Whoever he is, he seems to make an early morning beer run to the little IGA grocery store as soon as its open in the morning. I speculate whether he is out navigating this early because there is less traffic, because it hasn't gotten hot out, because he has been up all night and he is in pain. I have no way of knowing. He does not respond to my "Good Morning" s in any way. It is as if he neither sees nor hears me. He mumbles under his breath sometimes, unintelligible words. And he seems to feel that he owns the road. If I am on the same side of the road as he is, he guns his electric wheelchair, determined that he not be the one who gives way. And of course, I always step to one side to let him pass (as if there isn't a whole unused road surrounding us!).
His face is always screwed into a frown, his cheeks unshaven and gaunt, his clothes dirty. Where does he live, this unhappy man? Is he by himself? Is that by choice or default? What does he do with himself all day (besides drink a 6 pack of cheap beer)? Does anyone love this man? Has he driven away all his friends and family? Is it his fault? Does he wrestle with some sort of post traumatic stress syndrome brought on by a war experience? Is he connected to any agencies that could help him out? Does he have a painful terminal disease?
Well, maybe it is none of the above. I have no way of knowing since he is not open to conversation. I can only pray for this man that God will touch his life, heal his anger, and maybe his broken body. And I pray that I don't end up like that. Jarring, this brush with another's reality. Reminds one of how fragile life is, how beneficent God has been towards me, how blessed I am. How difficult it is to touch the life of another person.
His face is always screwed into a frown, his cheeks unshaven and gaunt, his clothes dirty. Where does he live, this unhappy man? Is he by himself? Is that by choice or default? What does he do with himself all day (besides drink a 6 pack of cheap beer)? Does anyone love this man? Has he driven away all his friends and family? Is it his fault? Does he wrestle with some sort of post traumatic stress syndrome brought on by a war experience? Is he connected to any agencies that could help him out? Does he have a painful terminal disease?
Well, maybe it is none of the above. I have no way of knowing since he is not open to conversation. I can only pray for this man that God will touch his life, heal his anger, and maybe his broken body. And I pray that I don't end up like that. Jarring, this brush with another's reality. Reminds one of how fragile life is, how beneficent God has been towards me, how blessed I am. How difficult it is to touch the life of another person.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Rochester Public Library of Monroe County
Drew has never been to the Rochester Public Library in downtown Rochester. We usually go to the North Chili branch of the Monroe County Library system. But I have been there and I know the richness of their collections (besides, everytime I want a certain book at the branch, I have to pay to have it sent from downtown).
We parked in the nearby garage and went downstairs to the entrance level. Everything is in a glass walkway, so you don't have to endure any harsh weather. Once inside, we approached the information desk and Drew asked where the videos are (why else would you go to a library?).
The woman was very pleasant, and told him that they are all housed in the building across the street, and that you can get there through an underground tunnel that goes beneath the street. Drew was amazed! We went down another level and wandered through the tunnel that had been turned into an art gallery. There were bathrooms, comfortable chairs, students working on computers.
Across the street, we stepped into a historic building of the elegant era (you know, the one where Rochesterians all had bundles of money for opulent decor in public places). He wanted to just wander about until he found the DVDs (so like a man), and I wanted to read the map the lady at the information desk had given him. I won. The room crammed with media was just to the right of the entrance of the tunnel.
Drew's eyes grew wide with surprise. He began to browse the collection, and after twenty minutes, had only gotten to the F's. He gave up and found the online catalog to locate the DVDs he wanted to see (how amazing that his decrepit old mother actually knew how to use the blasted thing - its not often I know more than he does).
I wanted to check out some choral CDs, and after he had reached his limit of 10 media, we looked about quickly at the rest of the media building, then went back to the glass structure where we had begun and took the elevator to the second of four floors. I was in heaven - rows and rows of choral CDs - yum!
Drew was flabbergasted that you can check out works of art. We browsed through the pictures. I saw several that I want to put in my office once I get the nod to hang things there. We wandered downstairs past the closed store, drooled at the idea of eating in their crepe restaurant some other day, and finally tore ourselves away. I was very happy to hear him say he wants to come back and for more than just the videos.
We parked in the nearby garage and went downstairs to the entrance level. Everything is in a glass walkway, so you don't have to endure any harsh weather. Once inside, we approached the information desk and Drew asked where the videos are (why else would you go to a library?).
The woman was very pleasant, and told him that they are all housed in the building across the street, and that you can get there through an underground tunnel that goes beneath the street. Drew was amazed! We went down another level and wandered through the tunnel that had been turned into an art gallery. There were bathrooms, comfortable chairs, students working on computers.
Across the street, we stepped into a historic building of the elegant era (you know, the one where Rochesterians all had bundles of money for opulent decor in public places). He wanted to just wander about until he found the DVDs (so like a man), and I wanted to read the map the lady at the information desk had given him. I won. The room crammed with media was just to the right of the entrance of the tunnel.
Drew's eyes grew wide with surprise. He began to browse the collection, and after twenty minutes, had only gotten to the F's. He gave up and found the online catalog to locate the DVDs he wanted to see (how amazing that his decrepit old mother actually knew how to use the blasted thing - its not often I know more than he does).
I wanted to check out some choral CDs, and after he had reached his limit of 10 media, we looked about quickly at the rest of the media building, then went back to the glass structure where we had begun and took the elevator to the second of four floors. I was in heaven - rows and rows of choral CDs - yum!
Drew was flabbergasted that you can check out works of art. We browsed through the pictures. I saw several that I want to put in my office once I get the nod to hang things there. We wandered downstairs past the closed store, drooled at the idea of eating in their crepe restaurant some other day, and finally tore ourselves away. I was very happy to hear him say he wants to come back and for more than just the videos.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Canal Walkways
Today was just as beautiful as Saturday. I longed to get out in the great weather and absorb as much as I can. Especially this weekend because I have three tests upcoming and I will need some "soul food" to hang on to while I am laying helpless on those cold uncomfortable machines as they whirr and bang about me, invading my body, probing for hopefully nothing.
I made Drew come with me. He didn't want to go for a walk. He protested that he was running twenty miles a week easy with all his soccer running and workouts and games. I was deaf to his pleas. I had seen a sign after my visit with the oncologist and I wanted to check it out. All the years I had worked at the Rush Rhees Library on the campus of U of R, I had driven past the Genesee Valley Park. There was an outdoor pool and a skating rink. Farther down the road, there was a grassy park with a playground.
But coming from the oncologists, I was trying to put some papers away, and I pulled into the parking area by the pool to get organized. That's when I saw the dock and advertisements for renting canoes and kayaks. And the trail signs. I wanted desperately to see what all the Canal Walkway was. So I dragged Drew with me to explore.
What an amazing area! It must be the best kept secret in Rochester! How could I have missed it last time I lived here. Besides being vast, the paths are blacktopped and well marked and well lighted. They weave close to the canal and alongside it, and every eighth of a mile or so there is a bridge walkway that takes you to the other side of the canal (which is rather muddy) to a whole other realm of great paths.
We saw joggers and bikers, elderly people and little kids, but it was not crowded. We passed the U of R crew team setting up for a workout, and saw a weird square boat that looked like it shouldn't float but which shot along at an amazing speed. The trees are just beginning to tinge yellowish, and the barges and dredges were parked alongside the canal here and there, silent reminders of ongoing work to keep the canal viable.
Drew ended up liking it. He wants to return and bring fishing gear (lots of signs encouraged that, but I can't imagine what on earth you would catch in such filthy water!). We chatted about our interrupted plans to go camping, just he and I. We need to do that REAL soon before the nights get any chillier! Drew wondered if we could hike the canal and camp along the way. I looked into it, and people do it all the time. Maybe we can manage next summer to do something with that.
But for today, at least, we got some sun, some fresh air, and a chance to chat. What more could one ask?
I made Drew come with me. He didn't want to go for a walk. He protested that he was running twenty miles a week easy with all his soccer running and workouts and games. I was deaf to his pleas. I had seen a sign after my visit with the oncologist and I wanted to check it out. All the years I had worked at the Rush Rhees Library on the campus of U of R, I had driven past the Genesee Valley Park. There was an outdoor pool and a skating rink. Farther down the road, there was a grassy park with a playground.
But coming from the oncologists, I was trying to put some papers away, and I pulled into the parking area by the pool to get organized. That's when I saw the dock and advertisements for renting canoes and kayaks. And the trail signs. I wanted desperately to see what all the Canal Walkway was. So I dragged Drew with me to explore.
What an amazing area! It must be the best kept secret in Rochester! How could I have missed it last time I lived here. Besides being vast, the paths are blacktopped and well marked and well lighted. They weave close to the canal and alongside it, and every eighth of a mile or so there is a bridge walkway that takes you to the other side of the canal (which is rather muddy) to a whole other realm of great paths.
We saw joggers and bikers, elderly people and little kids, but it was not crowded. We passed the U of R crew team setting up for a workout, and saw a weird square boat that looked like it shouldn't float but which shot along at an amazing speed. The trees are just beginning to tinge yellowish, and the barges and dredges were parked alongside the canal here and there, silent reminders of ongoing work to keep the canal viable.
Drew ended up liking it. He wants to return and bring fishing gear (lots of signs encouraged that, but I can't imagine what on earth you would catch in such filthy water!). We chatted about our interrupted plans to go camping, just he and I. We need to do that REAL soon before the nights get any chillier! Drew wondered if we could hike the canal and camp along the way. I looked into it, and people do it all the time. Maybe we can manage next summer to do something with that.
But for today, at least, we got some sun, some fresh air, and a chance to chat. What more could one ask?
Saturday, September 22, 2007
My Twin
Most Saturdays find me sitting on the sidelines at some soccer game where Drew is warming a bench, watching the ball zip back and forth from one end of the field to the other, yelling at the near misses, screaming at the goals. The Finney team has so far won one game, and it was a game that Drew got to play in a lot. Usually he only plays to spell the varsity players or if the game is going well and they can put in the B string.
Last Saturday was no exception. The day was glorious - sunny but not humid, a bit of a breeze. The game was held at a sports complex in Webster where multiple concurrent games for kids of all ages were running. Ours was out back behind the skating rink where there were bleachers and an official score board. I had taken some knitting because I know how long the breaks are, and because the boys were required to be there for the girls' game.
As I was sitting there waiting for the game to begin, I overheard a snatch of conversation between other parents sitting nearby, and offered a small comment. We struck up quite a conversation, and one woman, named Molly, and I started to compare notes. It was eerie how our lives were like carbon copies. I have five boys, so does she. I am divorced, so is she. I have a degree in music and so does she. We are the same age. We were both there watching our youngest son play. Her son is just one grade up from Drew. Her oldest is the same age as my oldest.
This conversation played out over the first half of the game. It was almost more than we could absorb. I mean, you know other people are experiencing the same things you are, but you don't often run slam bang into them. Finally, Molly couldn't take it, and excused herself to go talk with some other parents she knew.
In the car on the way home (they lost 5 - 1), I told Drew about Molly. He was happy that I had found a new friend. I told him I didn't think we would become bosom buddies because we are too much alike. Not in looks, just in personality. One usually gets along better with someone who complements their make up, not duplicates it.
Drew thought about that for awhile. He doesn't see it. People who are exactly the same ought to get along great. I wonder. It will be interesting to see if Molly and I further our acquaintance. We'll see.
Last Saturday was no exception. The day was glorious - sunny but not humid, a bit of a breeze. The game was held at a sports complex in Webster where multiple concurrent games for kids of all ages were running. Ours was out back behind the skating rink where there were bleachers and an official score board. I had taken some knitting because I know how long the breaks are, and because the boys were required to be there for the girls' game.
As I was sitting there waiting for the game to begin, I overheard a snatch of conversation between other parents sitting nearby, and offered a small comment. We struck up quite a conversation, and one woman, named Molly, and I started to compare notes. It was eerie how our lives were like carbon copies. I have five boys, so does she. I am divorced, so is she. I have a degree in music and so does she. We are the same age. We were both there watching our youngest son play. Her son is just one grade up from Drew. Her oldest is the same age as my oldest.
This conversation played out over the first half of the game. It was almost more than we could absorb. I mean, you know other people are experiencing the same things you are, but you don't often run slam bang into them. Finally, Molly couldn't take it, and excused herself to go talk with some other parents she knew.
In the car on the way home (they lost 5 - 1), I told Drew about Molly. He was happy that I had found a new friend. I told him I didn't think we would become bosom buddies because we are too much alike. Not in looks, just in personality. One usually gets along better with someone who complements their make up, not duplicates it.
Drew thought about that for awhile. He doesn't see it. People who are exactly the same ought to get along great. I wonder. It will be interesting to see if Molly and I further our acquaintance. We'll see.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Incroyable!
Unbelievable! My turn to drive the Friday carpool (don't ask). I pick up my crew and head out. They are all silent, tired, resting their heads, undoubtedly dreading another day of school, tests, crabby teachers. Likely they are not morning people. Maybe they haven't had time to wake up yet. Maybe they are just worn out from a whole week of labor.
I respect their need for peace. I refrain from chattering happily or asking questions. I do not turn on the radio. There is total silence. Rare. I enjoy it. We turn onto Manitou Road, queue up behind a FedEx truck and a small line of cars, and slowly make our way onto 531, heading into heavy morning traffic.
We are not late. It is unusual for traffic to be this heavy this early. I can't imagine how bad it will be in about twenty minutes. We have a hard time getting to the 490/390 turn off that we take to avoid construction traffic delays. I weave into the far lane to avoid slow cars turning off 531, then weave back into the right lane.
The road angled to the right, and suddenly, ahead of us, was a huge ball of red gold. I have seldom seen the sun so splendidly arrayed. It was breathtaking. I couldn't help saying, "Wow!" No one else said anything or changed their posture or even opened their eyes.
We drove a bit further. To the left was a tree-lined meadow with a bit of fog hovering above the grass. The magnificent orb hung just atop the trees. It was amazing. Again, I couldn't suppress a "Marvelous!" Still no one moved or acknowledged the beauty of the morning world.
Two miles further and that unbelievably beautiful sun hung low enough in the sky to hover between buildings. It was surreal ~ like being on some unknown planet where the heaven is unfamiliar yet eerily appealing. "Magnificent!" I said. "I have never seen such beauty."
No response. I thought perhaps those four teenagers were dead. Well, never mind. *I* certainly had a delightful and gorgeous drive to school this morning and went to work wrapped in warmth and satisfied with beauty. Perhaps it takes some modicum of age to appreciate such things.
I respect their need for peace. I refrain from chattering happily or asking questions. I do not turn on the radio. There is total silence. Rare. I enjoy it. We turn onto Manitou Road, queue up behind a FedEx truck and a small line of cars, and slowly make our way onto 531, heading into heavy morning traffic.
We are not late. It is unusual for traffic to be this heavy this early. I can't imagine how bad it will be in about twenty minutes. We have a hard time getting to the 490/390 turn off that we take to avoid construction traffic delays. I weave into the far lane to avoid slow cars turning off 531, then weave back into the right lane.
The road angled to the right, and suddenly, ahead of us, was a huge ball of red gold. I have seldom seen the sun so splendidly arrayed. It was breathtaking. I couldn't help saying, "Wow!" No one else said anything or changed their posture or even opened their eyes.
We drove a bit further. To the left was a tree-lined meadow with a bit of fog hovering above the grass. The magnificent orb hung just atop the trees. It was amazing. Again, I couldn't suppress a "Marvelous!" Still no one moved or acknowledged the beauty of the morning world.
Two miles further and that unbelievably beautiful sun hung low enough in the sky to hover between buildings. It was surreal ~ like being on some unknown planet where the heaven is unfamiliar yet eerily appealing. "Magnificent!" I said. "I have never seen such beauty."
No response. I thought perhaps those four teenagers were dead. Well, never mind. *I* certainly had a delightful and gorgeous drive to school this morning and went to work wrapped in warmth and satisfied with beauty. Perhaps it takes some modicum of age to appreciate such things.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Why is the Moon Round?
Really - have you ever wondered that? If the moon is a twisted fragment from a stellar explosion, or a chunk of earth broken off by some collision with a meteor, shouldn't it be jagged and misshapen? What keeps it up there? How does it stay in perfect stasis with the earth?
What brought all this thinking about? I was walking home, contentedly listening to Mozart, and I could see a little half moon shining in the sky. I was struck by the perfection of its shape, even though it was only half there.
Of course, the thoughts fly through your head that you know the surface is rock and there are mountains and valleys across the surface. If I were close to it, the moon would not be half so appealing. Yet there it hung looking demure and delicate, a faint white slip paperclipped to the fading blue sky.
Well, perhaps that is the way I should be as well. If I reflect the light of Someone much greater and more powerful than I, the glory of His light makes my pitted and uneven life fade into the background as I become a mere vehicle to transmit light emanating from beyond myself. No one looks at the pits, they only see Christ.
Now THAT's the way to "moon" someone!
What brought all this thinking about? I was walking home, contentedly listening to Mozart, and I could see a little half moon shining in the sky. I was struck by the perfection of its shape, even though it was only half there.
Of course, the thoughts fly through your head that you know the surface is rock and there are mountains and valleys across the surface. If I were close to it, the moon would not be half so appealing. Yet there it hung looking demure and delicate, a faint white slip paperclipped to the fading blue sky.
Well, perhaps that is the way I should be as well. If I reflect the light of Someone much greater and more powerful than I, the glory of His light makes my pitted and uneven life fade into the background as I become a mere vehicle to transmit light emanating from beyond myself. No one looks at the pits, they only see Christ.
Now THAT's the way to "moon" someone!
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Squishing Crabapples
As I am walking to work, still in my apartment complex, just before I reach the back of the fire station, there stands a small ornamental crabapple tree. It must be beautiful in the spring when it flowers, bending the air with its fragrance.
In the fall, it sheds the tiny little orbs of sour fruit, scattering them about the lawn beneath its disjointed limbs. They litter the grass like marbles on a sidewalk, and when you walk underneath the tree, they sink into the soft brown earth below the grass until they can go no lower. Then they collapse under your weight, squirting all squishy under your shoe, making a soft little popping noise.
Its absolutely grand. Everytime I reach the tree, I slow way down and purposely step on as many little apple bombs as I can, giggling when they explode, amused at how quickly the bees appear for breakfast or dinner. Sometimes, I walk back through and take another round at squishing the fragrant fruit, waging riotous warfare with the totally cooperative elements. Its so satisfying!
Where else can you safely implode your frustrations in life so effortlessly and beneficially? Besides, who knows how many new crabapple trees may result from a bit of fun-filled havoc? OK, so maybe I am reverting to my second - or third or fourth - childhood. But I don't care. If you can't be childlike, you can't enter the kingdom of heaven.
And it renews within me that sense of awe and wonder at a Creator who designed such an interesting and curious place for us to explore. Yahoo and happy squishing.
In the fall, it sheds the tiny little orbs of sour fruit, scattering them about the lawn beneath its disjointed limbs. They litter the grass like marbles on a sidewalk, and when you walk underneath the tree, they sink into the soft brown earth below the grass until they can go no lower. Then they collapse under your weight, squirting all squishy under your shoe, making a soft little popping noise.
Its absolutely grand. Everytime I reach the tree, I slow way down and purposely step on as many little apple bombs as I can, giggling when they explode, amused at how quickly the bees appear for breakfast or dinner. Sometimes, I walk back through and take another round at squishing the fragrant fruit, waging riotous warfare with the totally cooperative elements. Its so satisfying!
Where else can you safely implode your frustrations in life so effortlessly and beneficially? Besides, who knows how many new crabapple trees may result from a bit of fun-filled havoc? OK, so maybe I am reverting to my second - or third or fourth - childhood. But I don't care. If you can't be childlike, you can't enter the kingdom of heaven.
And it renews within me that sense of awe and wonder at a Creator who designed such an interesting and curious place for us to explore. Yahoo and happy squishing.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Mozart in the Morning
There have been a number of studies done on the relationship between listening to Mozart's music and learning ability. I first one I remember compared students who had and had not listened to Mozart's music taking a math test. Those who listened scored consistently higher on the test than those who had not.
Then for awhile there were CDs produced for young children and babies to listen to which were supposed to enable advanced skills and produce man-made geniuses. And shortly thereafter came a raft of studies disproving the theory that listening to Mozart music made some alteration in the brain's ability to process information.
Well, whether its true or not, I like hearing classical music, symphonic music, and have not heard any Mozart in awhile. Actually not much since my college days at Skidmore. I rather miss Mozart. I decided that I would find whatever CDs I have of Mozart's music and listen to it on my walk to work in the mornings.
I've been doing that when I can. Besides the joy of hearing his symphonies and some piano music, it affects the pace at which I walk. In the morning I can zip along sometimes at the eighth beat pace easily. Coming home is quite another story. I am lucky to keep up at the quarter note, dropping all the way to half note on days when I am beat.
It made me speculate whether there is additional benefit to chemo survivors who hear Mozart's music. There is a healing component to music in general. Especially if its a genre the listener prefers. I was amazed at the research that has been done on the effect of music during surgery, how it enables the doctors to think more clearly and react to emergencies more swiftly, how it reduces blood pressure, reduces the need for pain medication, etc.
We should have music in all our medical facilities based on the research, and I heartily agree. It further supports my thesis that Jairus House provide music to cancer patients. But is there a benefit on chemobrain behavior? I am not set up to investigate that myself, and so far I have not found any research that is specific to Mozart's music.
However, I am willing to give it a whirl on myself. Several days I noticed that I managed to wend my way further down my task list after hearing Mozart in the morning than on days when I didn't listen. Discounting the gazillion other impacting factors, of course.
Beyond that, I am curious to know if the particular performance makes a difference. I am suspecting that it does. I know there are recordings of works that I love which do not do the work justice, and others that make more of a piece than I had experienced before.
So here's the request:
Please send me a list of your favorite recordings of Mozart symphonies. Tell me conductor/orchestra/year info and label info if you have it. I will experiment by listening to different interpretations of the same symphony and see if it hits me in different ways.
Now, I realize this may seem silly to you, or inconsequential. But it will be important to those cancer patients and survivors that get exposed to Mozart music through Jairus House. So play along if you will and send me your list.
I'll let you know what I discover! Thanks.
Then for awhile there were CDs produced for young children and babies to listen to which were supposed to enable advanced skills and produce man-made geniuses. And shortly thereafter came a raft of studies disproving the theory that listening to Mozart music made some alteration in the brain's ability to process information.
Well, whether its true or not, I like hearing classical music, symphonic music, and have not heard any Mozart in awhile. Actually not much since my college days at Skidmore. I rather miss Mozart. I decided that I would find whatever CDs I have of Mozart's music and listen to it on my walk to work in the mornings.
I've been doing that when I can. Besides the joy of hearing his symphonies and some piano music, it affects the pace at which I walk. In the morning I can zip along sometimes at the eighth beat pace easily. Coming home is quite another story. I am lucky to keep up at the quarter note, dropping all the way to half note on days when I am beat.
It made me speculate whether there is additional benefit to chemo survivors who hear Mozart's music. There is a healing component to music in general. Especially if its a genre the listener prefers. I was amazed at the research that has been done on the effect of music during surgery, how it enables the doctors to think more clearly and react to emergencies more swiftly, how it reduces blood pressure, reduces the need for pain medication, etc.
We should have music in all our medical facilities based on the research, and I heartily agree. It further supports my thesis that Jairus House provide music to cancer patients. But is there a benefit on chemobrain behavior? I am not set up to investigate that myself, and so far I have not found any research that is specific to Mozart's music.
However, I am willing to give it a whirl on myself. Several days I noticed that I managed to wend my way further down my task list after hearing Mozart in the morning than on days when I didn't listen. Discounting the gazillion other impacting factors, of course.
Beyond that, I am curious to know if the particular performance makes a difference. I am suspecting that it does. I know there are recordings of works that I love which do not do the work justice, and others that make more of a piece than I had experienced before.
So here's the request:
Please send me a list of your favorite recordings of Mozart symphonies. Tell me conductor/orchestra/year info and label info if you have it. I will experiment by listening to different interpretations of the same symphony and see if it hits me in different ways.
Now, I realize this may seem silly to you, or inconsequential. But it will be important to those cancer patients and survivors that get exposed to Mozart music through Jairus House. So play along if you will and send me your list.
I'll let you know what I discover! Thanks.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Bad Start
I woke up still not feeling well, but I had to drive carpool, so I slept in as long as I dared, then decided that even though my to-do list is lengthy (especially since I didn't do half of yesterday's little things), I would return home after dropping kids off and try to get some more rest.
I sat in the driveway of the pick-up site, waiting for the girl from Spencerport to arrive. The boys assured me she is always late. After 15 minutes, I ask if she has ever been this late before. I get non-commital grunts. I have left my phone home, but at the risk of not being where I should be when she arrives, I decide to go home again and get my phone to see if she has called.
No message awaits. I phone her Mom's cell. She answers, sounds confused. I ask if Beth is on her way. "Oh, no dear, we are out of town at my father-in-law's funeral. I thought everyone knew that. I am sorry." Well, we get a very late start, and the boys are late arriving at school. Not the way you want a Monday to begin.
I go home, and sit. I realize what a mess the house is in since I didn't do anything yesterday. I do a few dishes, I sit. I pick up a few things, I sit. I fold a few shirts, I sit. I am plumb worn out to the point of exhaustion. But I slept solid and didn't wake or thrash about. How could I be so tired this early in the morning? My neck aches, my legs hurt, my back is killing me, my hiatal hernia is flaring. Any normal person would assume they have a flu. I am not running a temperature. And I am not normal anymore. Now I have to work hard to determine if I am having a normal illness, a cancer related illness, or an illness resulting from the treatment for cancer that I have undergone. Or none of the above!
I have a faculty meeting at 11. At 10 I take a long hot shower. I am truly thankful that I not only have running water, but hot running water and a good shower that's clean and functional. Not everyone has those luxuries, and I appreciate how great it feels. At 10:30, I lay down. I am so happy to have a private bedroom with a comfortable bed and warm blankets. There have been times when I had none of those things. I am glad to have them now. My alarm goes off at ten of 11. I am SO grateful that I live a mile away, close enough to get there in ten minutes - and very happy to have such a great car to drive there in. I am in no shape to walk today with legs that feel like wobbly Jello and enough nausea to float an oceanliner!
After the faculty meeting, I go home again. My day doesn't start at the library until 1. I lay down. The yuckies are beginning to lift. I wonder if I am going to make it to the end of the day - 9pm - without feeling bad again. I try to figure out if I ate something that set my system off. I don't want to repeat that. There are too many variables. I had squash, pulled pork, asparagus, cheese. Anything could have set me off. I realize I am branching out and being bolder about what I eat. That's a good thing (except when I don't tolerate it).
Once again I refuse to take a day when I can navigate even at half speed. I know there may be days when I won't be able to move, so I will go today and tough it out because tomorrow I may not be able to do that. Even though the new doctor says I don't have a recurrence of cancer (yahoo!), I know that I am not in tippytop condition. And that's one reason I am where I am. Even on a bad day, I can keep going. And when the bad days are few and far between, I get to work on projects I have never had time for in the past. Pretty sweet, don't ya think?
I sat in the driveway of the pick-up site, waiting for the girl from Spencerport to arrive. The boys assured me she is always late. After 15 minutes, I ask if she has ever been this late before. I get non-commital grunts. I have left my phone home, but at the risk of not being where I should be when she arrives, I decide to go home again and get my phone to see if she has called.
No message awaits. I phone her Mom's cell. She answers, sounds confused. I ask if Beth is on her way. "Oh, no dear, we are out of town at my father-in-law's funeral. I thought everyone knew that. I am sorry." Well, we get a very late start, and the boys are late arriving at school. Not the way you want a Monday to begin.
I go home, and sit. I realize what a mess the house is in since I didn't do anything yesterday. I do a few dishes, I sit. I pick up a few things, I sit. I fold a few shirts, I sit. I am plumb worn out to the point of exhaustion. But I slept solid and didn't wake or thrash about. How could I be so tired this early in the morning? My neck aches, my legs hurt, my back is killing me, my hiatal hernia is flaring. Any normal person would assume they have a flu. I am not running a temperature. And I am not normal anymore. Now I have to work hard to determine if I am having a normal illness, a cancer related illness, or an illness resulting from the treatment for cancer that I have undergone. Or none of the above!
I have a faculty meeting at 11. At 10 I take a long hot shower. I am truly thankful that I not only have running water, but hot running water and a good shower that's clean and functional. Not everyone has those luxuries, and I appreciate how great it feels. At 10:30, I lay down. I am so happy to have a private bedroom with a comfortable bed and warm blankets. There have been times when I had none of those things. I am glad to have them now. My alarm goes off at ten of 11. I am SO grateful that I live a mile away, close enough to get there in ten minutes - and very happy to have such a great car to drive there in. I am in no shape to walk today with legs that feel like wobbly Jello and enough nausea to float an oceanliner!
After the faculty meeting, I go home again. My day doesn't start at the library until 1. I lay down. The yuckies are beginning to lift. I wonder if I am going to make it to the end of the day - 9pm - without feeling bad again. I try to figure out if I ate something that set my system off. I don't want to repeat that. There are too many variables. I had squash, pulled pork, asparagus, cheese. Anything could have set me off. I realize I am branching out and being bolder about what I eat. That's a good thing (except when I don't tolerate it).
Once again I refuse to take a day when I can navigate even at half speed. I know there may be days when I won't be able to move, so I will go today and tough it out because tomorrow I may not be able to do that. Even though the new doctor says I don't have a recurrence of cancer (yahoo!), I know that I am not in tippytop condition. And that's one reason I am where I am. Even on a bad day, I can keep going. And when the bad days are few and far between, I get to work on projects I have never had time for in the past. Pretty sweet, don't ya think?
Sunday, September 16, 2007
A Bad Day
I was fine when I got up in the morning. Church went well and the choir sang alright. We started a bit too slowly, but by mid song had gained the speed to make it work. In rehearsals, mid song had been too fast a tempo and sounded chipmunky. Better this way. The congregation joined in, the choir uplifted them with a countermelody, and the intended energy was there. We are still getting used to each other.
I stayed after church to select the Christmas cantata from their files. I will need to begin rehearsing in October, which is fast approaching. I need to have a look see myself. Drew calls to tell me he is eating at a friend's house and will be home later.
I sit down, and suddenly it is as if I have been run over by an eighteen wheeler. Where did that come from? I can barely move my arms and legs. I haven't had a bout of tiredness in weeks. Yesterday, I had had some stomach trouble, but it seemed to have passed (pun intended).
Now the stomach trouble is back in spades. My side hurts. My head aches. I sleep in the chair for an hour or so. I drink a lot of water. I am used to not feeling well, but haven't had this bad a time in awhile. Maybe I am detoxifying. Drew comes back. We do laundry. He has to do some homework and needs to go to a library. We go, but I feel like wet spaghetti. By morning, I have to be well. It is my turn to drive carpool. And tomorrow is my evening shift day. Maybe I can get some rest in the morning after I drop kids off at school.
It reminds me to be more thankful for all the good days I have been having. How quickly I forget the blessing of feeling well. Lord, I put my hand in Yours, and await the dawn.
I stayed after church to select the Christmas cantata from their files. I will need to begin rehearsing in October, which is fast approaching. I need to have a look see myself. Drew calls to tell me he is eating at a friend's house and will be home later.
I sit down, and suddenly it is as if I have been run over by an eighteen wheeler. Where did that come from? I can barely move my arms and legs. I haven't had a bout of tiredness in weeks. Yesterday, I had had some stomach trouble, but it seemed to have passed (pun intended).
Now the stomach trouble is back in spades. My side hurts. My head aches. I sleep in the chair for an hour or so. I drink a lot of water. I am used to not feeling well, but haven't had this bad a time in awhile. Maybe I am detoxifying. Drew comes back. We do laundry. He has to do some homework and needs to go to a library. We go, but I feel like wet spaghetti. By morning, I have to be well. It is my turn to drive carpool. And tomorrow is my evening shift day. Maybe I can get some rest in the morning after I drop kids off at school.
It reminds me to be more thankful for all the good days I have been having. How quickly I forget the blessing of feeling well. Lord, I put my hand in Yours, and await the dawn.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Homecoming
Charles Finney High put much more emphasis on the Friday football game/bonfire/movie night than on the two soccer matches on Saturday during Homecoming Weekend. Still, there were a lot of people milling about despite the pouring down rain. Corn grilling made a smoke smudge of the downfield sidelines, and parents served up steaming plates of pulled pork, baked potatoes, and cole slaw for a measly $5.
Drew had chosen to go to a night of laser tag in Syracuse on Friday, and had returned from his fun filled night just in time to get to the soccer field. I watched him across the field by the players bench, huddled down in the pouring rain, trying to stay awake after being up so many hours. His support for the team was honorable, since he only played for about three seconds in the final minutes of the game. They lost 1 to nothing. The boys soccer team had given the girls soccer team roses at the end of their game. The girls soccer team gave the boys soccer team plates of homemade cookies and brownies. Nice tradition!
He walked stiffly to the car and climbed in, after tossing his gear in the trunk. We had planned to get him a haircut right after the game, but I thought he would be too tired. "I'm fine," he insisted. "I once stayed up for three days straight. Really, I'm not tired at all." I turned the heat on to ward off any chills. His uniform was soaked (but not muddy!). He chatted about the laser tag event and how he won enough points to earn a pack of swedish fish. His voice has dropped another six pitches.
After briefly stopping home long enough for him to change out of his soccer duds, we made it to the barber's with twenty minutes to spare before closing. I like this little Italian barber shop. Something about the camraderie of the gentlemen who work there is appealing. They were giving a young boy his first haircut - fussing to get it just right as Mom took pictures, entertaining the little man to stop his crying and protesting. It was an important milestone, and they were making the most of it for the parents' benefit.
It was extremely touching, and the heavy Italian accents only added to the charm. Drew climbed into a chair. "How much off?" Drew said not too short, I say short. The barber winks at me, and trims the back and sides short, leaves the top longer. We are both happy.
Back home, I start dinner - scalloped potatoes, warm applesauce, and asparagus - while Drew goes down the hall to shower. I peel and slice and season, then pop the casserole into the oven. I listen for the shower, but it is quiet. "Drew," I call. "Better get going. I want to do laundry before it gets too late. Drew?"
I wander down the hall and peek in his room. He is sprawled out on his bed, still dressed, snoring away. I smile and turn off his light. Another day. Another time. Right now, he is home and all is well.
Drew had chosen to go to a night of laser tag in Syracuse on Friday, and had returned from his fun filled night just in time to get to the soccer field. I watched him across the field by the players bench, huddled down in the pouring rain, trying to stay awake after being up so many hours. His support for the team was honorable, since he only played for about three seconds in the final minutes of the game. They lost 1 to nothing. The boys soccer team had given the girls soccer team roses at the end of their game. The girls soccer team gave the boys soccer team plates of homemade cookies and brownies. Nice tradition!
He walked stiffly to the car and climbed in, after tossing his gear in the trunk. We had planned to get him a haircut right after the game, but I thought he would be too tired. "I'm fine," he insisted. "I once stayed up for three days straight. Really, I'm not tired at all." I turned the heat on to ward off any chills. His uniform was soaked (but not muddy!). He chatted about the laser tag event and how he won enough points to earn a pack of swedish fish. His voice has dropped another six pitches.
After briefly stopping home long enough for him to change out of his soccer duds, we made it to the barber's with twenty minutes to spare before closing. I like this little Italian barber shop. Something about the camraderie of the gentlemen who work there is appealing. They were giving a young boy his first haircut - fussing to get it just right as Mom took pictures, entertaining the little man to stop his crying and protesting. It was an important milestone, and they were making the most of it for the parents' benefit.
It was extremely touching, and the heavy Italian accents only added to the charm. Drew climbed into a chair. "How much off?" Drew said not too short, I say short. The barber winks at me, and trims the back and sides short, leaves the top longer. We are both happy.
Back home, I start dinner - scalloped potatoes, warm applesauce, and asparagus - while Drew goes down the hall to shower. I peel and slice and season, then pop the casserole into the oven. I listen for the shower, but it is quiet. "Drew," I call. "Better get going. I want to do laundry before it gets too late. Drew?"
I wander down the hall and peek in his room. He is sprawled out on his bed, still dressed, snoring away. I smile and turn off his light. Another day. Another time. Right now, he is home and all is well.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Happy Birthday Mom!
A Birthday Wish
May your day be filled with visits
From family and friends;
May your house o'erflow with laughter
and joy that knows no end;
May the day be bright and sunny,
and the weather perfect too.
May you do all kinds of fun things
That we know you love to do;
May the bread you break at dinner
Be with those who love you most.
May this be a year of happiness ~
it's to your health we toast !
Sure wish I could come see you today, but I won't be able to. I saw Deb this morning and I know she and Jan are coming to visit, so I am content to wish you a wonderful day knowing that they will be there and take you out for dinner. Its good that you will be able to spend time with the two of them and John and Jimmy and Dad of course. Any more of us coming home than that and your head will spin!
In place of my being there, thought I would share a small memory of one of my favorite times with you. Just my absent way of saying how much I love and appreciate you.
Of an evening when I was young, after the dinner dishes were washed, dried and tucked back into their cupboards, after the kitchen floor was swept and the pots and pans all wiped dry, after the laundry was folded and set on the stairs for taking up, after the sun had snuck beyond the horizon and twilight blotted the sky with stars, after we kids were done fooling around and done with horseplay, you would wander in the direction of the living room, book in hand, and call us to sit with you on the couch.
At first we would protest, because we knew it meant bedtime was approaching. AND we knew you would hand one of us a comb and ask us to comb your hair while you read to us. I never understood the significance of that until I was grown, but now I realize what an important part of the bedtime ritual that was.
We would climb up on the sofa where you sat with your legs tucked under you and snuggle as close as we could - to 'see the pictures' we always said, but the books you read us had become more text and less graphics. There we gathered, one closely knit clump of nodding heads and bright eyes, silently breathing - or holding our breath - and you would begin.
Chapter One
or Chapter Two
or wherever we had left off the night before. We struggled through the antics of the Sugar Creek Gang, the woes of Little House on the Prairie, the mischief of Joy Sparton, the escapades of the Bobbsey Twins and characters too numberous to recall. You would read an entire chapter, then ceremoniously close the book and we would all yell and plead for 'just one more, please!'
You usually relented and read another, then another until your throat was so parched you would finally shoo us off to bed. I don't really remember half of what you read to us. It was purely soothing to hear the singsong pitch of your voice and share the comfort of our collective body warmth, and know that we had full tummies and clean beds awaiting us.
And incidentally, you instilled in us all a love of reading that stays with us today. We all have our favorite genres and series that we follow. Sometimes I read what my siblings are reading, just to recapture that sense of togetherness we had back in the days when we were all young and the world was still an exciting, inviting and friendly place.
I read to my own children when they were young. They loved it as much as I did. I hope they will read to my grandchildren. It is a wonderful gift you gave all of us. It has benefitted us for many years, and will continue to impact the family lineage long after we are gone.
Thanks for doing that. Sometimes I just want to go back to being a girl of ten, cuddled on the couch after dinner, hearing you recount some author's vision of the world, and know it will bring a good night.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Drive to Nowhere
My turn to pick up the kids after a soccer game and make sure they get home safely. After work, I hop in the car and start out. I know traffic will be slow since there is construction on 490, the main road through Rochester. I know it will be OK going *into* the city, just slow going out the other side. I hope it won't take too long because I want to see as much of the second half of the game as I can. They started at 4:15, so I know I will miss most of it. I could take the southern route - 390 to 590 to 490 on the other side of the city past the construction slowdowns, but I know that will take at least 15 more minutes, take me 12 miles out of the way, and consume more gas. So I opt for slow traffic.
I get to the school, and there is no one there. The game appears to be over. Granted, it is nearly 6. I am not sure if Drew and Zach actually caught a ride with someone else or not. I swallow my disappointment at not seeing the game, and grab my cell phone, hoping Drew has his on him.
There is a message. Funny, I had the phone on me all afternoon and never heard it ring. It is Drew. He says he has asked Zach to dinner. Yikes! I have a rule that Drew can't have anyone over if I am not there. I start to drive home, then realize the number Drew called from was not his, but another parents cell.
I call her. She is puzzled as to why I am calling. The game was cancelled because no referee showed up. The boys are home. I explain that I am in the school parking lot. She apologizes that she didn't listen more closely to what message Drew left me. Its OK. I pull out of the lot and turn on to 490 - going the wrong direction. Rats! Now I am wasting even more time to no purpose.
I decide I will look for something to compensate. Don't waste time. Its one of life's most precious and totally irreplaceable commodities. I can will not to get upset. That's the easy part. I look for something beautiful to enjoy in the scenery, but its mostly just ugly around me - no blazing sunsets or fall foliage or flowery bushes. Just concrete and blacktop and black clouds in the sky.
I turn on the radio looking for symphonic music to encourage my soul. All talkshows and news. Bah! I focus on driving, willing the time to pass quickly so I can be home. Why am I doing this? I take a deep breath. Exhale. Am I so goal oriented that I cannot release myself from the tyranny of the task to just live? There are better ways to spend an hour, that's for sure.
Well, my motives were right, and its water under the bridge now. But it makes me stop and think about how much time I spend driving nowhere, going around in circles to no end, burning up precious minutes on nothing while the important things go undone. I look back over the week, and realize that there are several cards of encouragement I have not yet sent, some CDs to mail to cancer patients who need uplifting that I haven't even addressed or packaged yet, a call to make to a friend whose marriage is on the rocks, an email to send to board members of Jairus House to pose a question I must answer, a form to mail to the lawyer. . .the list seems endless.
But having spent time in the car reflecting on things, I realize they will all get done. Not at the speed I would like perhaps, but without driving myself nuts over it. Maybe what I really needed this afternoon was a drive to nowhere so I could sit still long enough to gain some perspective. Yes, life is short, but you can't run pell mell through every minute and remain sane. So once in awhile, choose to take a drive just to drive. Or if you prefer, a walk just to walk. Or sit down just to sit. You will be amazed at the improvement in your priority perceptions!
I get to the school, and there is no one there. The game appears to be over. Granted, it is nearly 6. I am not sure if Drew and Zach actually caught a ride with someone else or not. I swallow my disappointment at not seeing the game, and grab my cell phone, hoping Drew has his on him.
There is a message. Funny, I had the phone on me all afternoon and never heard it ring. It is Drew. He says he has asked Zach to dinner. Yikes! I have a rule that Drew can't have anyone over if I am not there. I start to drive home, then realize the number Drew called from was not his, but another parents cell.
I call her. She is puzzled as to why I am calling. The game was cancelled because no referee showed up. The boys are home. I explain that I am in the school parking lot. She apologizes that she didn't listen more closely to what message Drew left me. Its OK. I pull out of the lot and turn on to 490 - going the wrong direction. Rats! Now I am wasting even more time to no purpose.
I decide I will look for something to compensate. Don't waste time. Its one of life's most precious and totally irreplaceable commodities. I can will not to get upset. That's the easy part. I look for something beautiful to enjoy in the scenery, but its mostly just ugly around me - no blazing sunsets or fall foliage or flowery bushes. Just concrete and blacktop and black clouds in the sky.
I turn on the radio looking for symphonic music to encourage my soul. All talkshows and news. Bah! I focus on driving, willing the time to pass quickly so I can be home. Why am I doing this? I take a deep breath. Exhale. Am I so goal oriented that I cannot release myself from the tyranny of the task to just live? There are better ways to spend an hour, that's for sure.
Well, my motives were right, and its water under the bridge now. But it makes me stop and think about how much time I spend driving nowhere, going around in circles to no end, burning up precious minutes on nothing while the important things go undone. I look back over the week, and realize that there are several cards of encouragement I have not yet sent, some CDs to mail to cancer patients who need uplifting that I haven't even addressed or packaged yet, a call to make to a friend whose marriage is on the rocks, an email to send to board members of Jairus House to pose a question I must answer, a form to mail to the lawyer. . .the list seems endless.
But having spent time in the car reflecting on things, I realize they will all get done. Not at the speed I would like perhaps, but without driving myself nuts over it. Maybe what I really needed this afternoon was a drive to nowhere so I could sit still long enough to gain some perspective. Yes, life is short, but you can't run pell mell through every minute and remain sane. So once in awhile, choose to take a drive just to drive. Or if you prefer, a walk just to walk. Or sit down just to sit. You will be amazed at the improvement in your priority perceptions!
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
9/11 - not this year
For most of yesterday, I didn't think I was going to be able to have my appointment with the oncologist here after all the hair pulling and phone conversations. I got a call at 8 am from the scheduling secretary telling me that they didn't have any of my records from either Illinois or Connecticut. Arrrrgh!
I got out my list of times and days I had contacted both them and the other places, whom I had spoken with, what people told me. The woman was brand new in her job. When I read through the litany of what had already transpired, she was aghast. She couldn't believe there were no records there after all that.
So she took the information *again* about sending a fax to Yale and told me she would call them right away. If they couldn't get the records from them that day though, they would have to reschedule me. Sigh. There is nothing I can do about this, so I just left it in the Lord's hands and went to work. First a couple of hours at the church setting up this week's music. Then to the Library Grand Opening ribbon cutting followed by a celebration luncheon of wonderful treats.
When I was finally able to think about other things, I tried to call the clinic and see if they had made any progress. I couldn't get through. All lines were busy. About this time, my prayer sounded like, "OK, Lord, this is silly. It would be a whole lot simpler if you would just touch me and make me well and I could stop all this tail chasing and get down to the really important thing." Smile. So I began plowing through the morning email to take care of what I could before starting my evening shift on the reference desk (I have the 5pm to 9pm Monday shift).
Just as I was going on desk, my cell phone rang. It was the secretary at the clinic. They had managed just at that moment to get my Connecticut paperwork, so I could keep my appointment.
Thank goodness! I found the place OK despite not having gotten their pack of information. It was easy to park and quick to get there. I was surprised at how few people were in line to check in. Most of the places I have been have had lines to check in, and lots of people sitting around waiting to be called back.
I had barely finished the paperwork when the called me back to get vitals. Normally you get moved to a second waiting area after that piece, but this place put me right in the room. "The doctor will be in directly," the receptionist told me. Yeah, right. They say that, and then its an hour wait.
But lo and behold, the doctor came in less than ten minutes. Wow! She was extremely personable and paid attention to what I told her. She took down the information, and I believed her when she said she would make sure I didn't get any IVP dye to which I am highly allergic (the Dr at Yale had to be told that every single time I saw him).
She sized up the situation, did a preliminary check and manual exam, ordered bloodwork, a PET scan, an MRI, and a colonoscopy within minutes of our conversation. She stepped out of the room for a minute to check doctor schedules to see who might be the best person to do the gastro parts and the gnye parts, and it really was just a few minutes instead of the half hour I had gotten used to at Yale.
She immediately gained my confidence. And gave me the low down on the various phone numbers I have been calling. I now am "connected" - which means if there should be any sort of incident or event needing attention or at least a question needing to be answered, I can call the right place and get the help I need.
Her take on what she was seeing on the tests? She wasn't sure if there was a reason for concern, but told me that sometimes in a new place with different equipment, you can get a better reading. Since I have been clear for over 2 years, she was more inclined to think that the problems I am having are not part of a new occurrence of cancer, but entirely the results of the treatments and surgeries I have already had, which the other doctor had only mentioned in passing as an "O, BTW, this is also something we have to address before we can deal with more cancer".
I did find out as I was talking with the check out receptionist (who helped to schedule the tests, and who told me that the dates are tentative waiting for the insurance AOK) that my doctor usually see patients only on Fridays, and that there were 2 doctors on vacation, otherwise there would have been more patients in the corridors.
Well, I felt better about things. I have some tests and things to take care of, but we are underway at long last. And I think I have good people caring for me. But I still have to contact Illinois and work on getting those records here! Do I hear a hearty amen for a national database of health care information?
I got out my list of times and days I had contacted both them and the other places, whom I had spoken with, what people told me. The woman was brand new in her job. When I read through the litany of what had already transpired, she was aghast. She couldn't believe there were no records there after all that.
So she took the information *again* about sending a fax to Yale and told me she would call them right away. If they couldn't get the records from them that day though, they would have to reschedule me. Sigh. There is nothing I can do about this, so I just left it in the Lord's hands and went to work. First a couple of hours at the church setting up this week's music. Then to the Library Grand Opening ribbon cutting followed by a celebration luncheon of wonderful treats.
When I was finally able to think about other things, I tried to call the clinic and see if they had made any progress. I couldn't get through. All lines were busy. About this time, my prayer sounded like, "OK, Lord, this is silly. It would be a whole lot simpler if you would just touch me and make me well and I could stop all this tail chasing and get down to the really important thing." Smile. So I began plowing through the morning email to take care of what I could before starting my evening shift on the reference desk (I have the 5pm to 9pm Monday shift).
Just as I was going on desk, my cell phone rang. It was the secretary at the clinic. They had managed just at that moment to get my Connecticut paperwork, so I could keep my appointment.
Thank goodness! I found the place OK despite not having gotten their pack of information. It was easy to park and quick to get there. I was surprised at how few people were in line to check in. Most of the places I have been have had lines to check in, and lots of people sitting around waiting to be called back.
I had barely finished the paperwork when the called me back to get vitals. Normally you get moved to a second waiting area after that piece, but this place put me right in the room. "The doctor will be in directly," the receptionist told me. Yeah, right. They say that, and then its an hour wait.
But lo and behold, the doctor came in less than ten minutes. Wow! She was extremely personable and paid attention to what I told her. She took down the information, and I believed her when she said she would make sure I didn't get any IVP dye to which I am highly allergic (the Dr at Yale had to be told that every single time I saw him).
She sized up the situation, did a preliminary check and manual exam, ordered bloodwork, a PET scan, an MRI, and a colonoscopy within minutes of our conversation. She stepped out of the room for a minute to check doctor schedules to see who might be the best person to do the gastro parts and the gnye parts, and it really was just a few minutes instead of the half hour I had gotten used to at Yale.
She immediately gained my confidence. And gave me the low down on the various phone numbers I have been calling. I now am "connected" - which means if there should be any sort of incident or event needing attention or at least a question needing to be answered, I can call the right place and get the help I need.
Her take on what she was seeing on the tests? She wasn't sure if there was a reason for concern, but told me that sometimes in a new place with different equipment, you can get a better reading. Since I have been clear for over 2 years, she was more inclined to think that the problems I am having are not part of a new occurrence of cancer, but entirely the results of the treatments and surgeries I have already had, which the other doctor had only mentioned in passing as an "O, BTW, this is also something we have to address before we can deal with more cancer".
I did find out as I was talking with the check out receptionist (who helped to schedule the tests, and who told me that the dates are tentative waiting for the insurance AOK) that my doctor usually see patients only on Fridays, and that there were 2 doctors on vacation, otherwise there would have been more patients in the corridors.
Well, I felt better about things. I have some tests and things to take care of, but we are underway at long last. And I think I have good people caring for me. But I still have to contact Illinois and work on getting those records here! Do I hear a hearty amen for a national database of health care information?
Monday, September 10, 2007
Ribbon Cutting
Today we officially celebrated the generous gift of our new library building with a ribbon cutting ceremony. B Thomas Golisano, after whom the building is named, donated $5 million dollars - a goodly portion of the $11.5 million dollar campaign to raise this edifice.
Mr. Golisano founded Paychex, a local company. Their website reads as follows:
"Paychex, Inc. is a recognized leader in the payroll and human resource industry, serving approximately 561,000 businesses nationwide. With president and chief executive officer Jonathan J. Judge at the helm, the Paychex commitment to customers remains as strong today as it was when the company was founded by B. Thomas Golisano in 1971."
http://www.paychex.com/company/aboutus.aspx (9/10/2007).
Mr. Golisano was obviously touched by the outpouring of thanks, and mentioned that without his many employees his gift would not have been possible.
We began with a short chapel service where the students were offered the opportunity to express their thanks. They did so by filling the chapel to capacity and applauding, granting a standing ovation to Mr. Golisano's remarks.
The college chaplain, Tom Kilburn opened with a call to worship.
The Chorale sang a Hanson piece titled "Song of Thanksgiving" under the direction of our new choral director, Stephen Caracciolo (nicely performed a cappella piece fresh out of the starting gate!).
President Martin welcomed everyone and told a bit about the process and the people involved.
Mr. Golisano responded, then, after a Prayer of Thanksgiving by President Martin, we all filed out of the cultural life center to the front of the library where chairs and an awning had been set up, and a long red ribbon blocked the entrance stairs.
For the Grand Opening Celebration, President Martin welcomed additional honored guests and donors including a number of area politicians. The press was there with cameras - I am sure we will make the evening news - and the local paper, the Democrat and Chronicle, ran a whole insert dedicated to the new facility.
Other brief speakers included the Chair of the Board of Trustees, Student Association President ( who presented Mr. Golisano with a life time pass for free coffee at the Cafe), a Monroe County Executive, the Provost of RWC and the Vice President for Advancement. Mr. Golisano addressed the group with generous comments and a few jokes.
Then the platform party stepped up to the ribbon and held on while Mr. Golisano cut it. Applause was long and heartfelt. Attendees streamed into the building for a look see. We had set up powerpoints in digital frames so people could wander through the place and be aware of all the great features. There were also guided tours. Most were interested in the LEED aspect (Leadership in Energy and Engineering Design) where we use the geothermal heating and cooling (still working a few bugs out of that), the lights that dim in daylight and brighten at night, use of natural lighting, all those conservation features that monitor environmental impact.
Overall though, the reaction upon entering was a jow dropping "Wow!" and I heartily amen that. Even though I know about all the little glitches and quirks, I love this building. Its comfortable. Students feel at home in it and make it their own. Best of all is the openness. You can find what you want and things are laid out well with plenty of space.
I suppose that's true of all new buildings, and after time, they get crammed with more than they should, they age, they sag. But its wonderful to live in a good one for once and be able to really help people connect with their research needs.
Mr. Golisano founded Paychex, a local company. Their website reads as follows:
"Paychex, Inc. is a recognized leader in the payroll and human resource industry, serving approximately 561,000 businesses nationwide. With president and chief executive officer Jonathan J. Judge at the helm, the Paychex commitment to customers remains as strong today as it was when the company was founded by B. Thomas Golisano in 1971."
http://www.paychex.com/company/aboutus.aspx (9/10/2007).
Mr. Golisano was obviously touched by the outpouring of thanks, and mentioned that without his many employees his gift would not have been possible.
We began with a short chapel service where the students were offered the opportunity to express their thanks. They did so by filling the chapel to capacity and applauding, granting a standing ovation to Mr. Golisano's remarks.
The college chaplain, Tom Kilburn opened with a call to worship.
The Chorale sang a Hanson piece titled "Song of Thanksgiving" under the direction of our new choral director, Stephen Caracciolo (nicely performed a cappella piece fresh out of the starting gate!).
President Martin welcomed everyone and told a bit about the process and the people involved.
Mr. Golisano responded, then, after a Prayer of Thanksgiving by President Martin, we all filed out of the cultural life center to the front of the library where chairs and an awning had been set up, and a long red ribbon blocked the entrance stairs.
For the Grand Opening Celebration, President Martin welcomed additional honored guests and donors including a number of area politicians. The press was there with cameras - I am sure we will make the evening news - and the local paper, the Democrat and Chronicle, ran a whole insert dedicated to the new facility.
Other brief speakers included the Chair of the Board of Trustees, Student Association President ( who presented Mr. Golisano with a life time pass for free coffee at the Cafe), a Monroe County Executive, the Provost of RWC and the Vice President for Advancement. Mr. Golisano addressed the group with generous comments and a few jokes.
Then the platform party stepped up to the ribbon and held on while Mr. Golisano cut it. Applause was long and heartfelt. Attendees streamed into the building for a look see. We had set up powerpoints in digital frames so people could wander through the place and be aware of all the great features. There were also guided tours. Most were interested in the LEED aspect (Leadership in Energy and Engineering Design) where we use the geothermal heating and cooling (still working a few bugs out of that), the lights that dim in daylight and brighten at night, use of natural lighting, all those conservation features that monitor environmental impact.
Overall though, the reaction upon entering was a jow dropping "Wow!" and I heartily amen that. Even though I know about all the little glitches and quirks, I love this building. Its comfortable. Students feel at home in it and make it their own. Best of all is the openness. You can find what you want and things are laid out well with plenty of space.
I suppose that's true of all new buildings, and after time, they get crammed with more than they should, they age, they sag. But its wonderful to live in a good one for once and be able to really help people connect with their research needs.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Schubert afternoon
The Arts & Cultural Council of Rochester sponsors the Gateway Music Festival, encouraging and developing classical music featuring African-American musicians from all over the United States in solo recitals, chamber music concerts, and symphonic endeavors. This afternoon, Roberts Wesleyan hosted a chamber concert at the Cultural Life Center - a performance of Shubertian musics presented by Paul Badura-Skoda at the piano for the first half, and joined by various African-American string players for the second.
Pity the concert hall was barely half filled. On a rainy Sunday afternoon, this concert, which was free to all comers, was a treat. Badura-Skoda, an Austrian pianist (whose list of conductors for whom he has played reads like a Who's Who of famous musicians), may be 80, but his proficiency still far surpasses what Rochesterians are accustomed to.
He began the program with several little Schubert waltzes, delightful light fare, the last of which was particularly charming. Smiling, nodding to the audience, his fingers tripped over the keys with accustomed familiarity, floating the dancing phrases out above our heads with joy.
Then he presented Schubert's Piano Impromptu Opus 142 No. 1 in f minor. If a bit slow, I could clearly hear Schubert, feel his soul despite the piano's wont to overplay the bass and underplay the trebles. It was as if Badura-Skoda threw each phrase a gasping, gutted fish onto the stage where we barely had a chance to digest it before he threw the next one out, stopping sometimes for us to catch up, watching us wrestle with the slippery slimy mass.
Our society has so much to absorb, so much to explore, to digest, that we have become either a vast lake a quarter inch deep, or a mile deep hole one inch wide. We haven't the wherewithal to assess our musical encounters well.
Whether Badura-Skoda is at his peak or not, one cannot help but realize his expertise, his grasp of so much music, playing from memory, moving stiff fingers in rutted patterns with ease. One needn't be a musical genius to recognize his mastery of piano. His musicianship showed best in Schubert's chamber piece the Trout.
From my vantage point, I could watch his hands. Sometimes they hovered delicately over the keys, like a hummingbird darting in for sweet nectar. Sometimes they crawled tarantulan like deep into the valleys between the black mountains. At one point his hands were traveling in opposite directions rapidly, and it looked like he was stripping the peel from an orange, laying bare the succulent fruit for our ears. Sometimes his fingers worked like pistons, pumping the sound out of an oil rig. During one long trill, his hands vibrated like a cell phone. It was artistry to watch, punctuated by aural delights.
Despite the paper rustling, coughing, squeaky chair, velcro ripping, heavy breathing, head nodding, snorting distractions of the audience, the music was refreshing. And yet. As accomplished as he is, as well known, as experienced, I got the sense he was not giving us of himself. For a musician noted for his passion, I did not get a glimpse of his own soul.
Don't get me wrong, the notes were all there (and there were a lot of them), the phrasing enticing, his connection with the other performers faultless, the music was good. I enjoyed it. But it was a surface skimmer. I glided gently along without being made aware of the world beneath the surface that I know exists.
Granted I would a whole lot rather hear good music than badly performed music. But it was just music. I want more. I want that magical in the moment breath holding riveting spell binding suspension of time nowness that rarely ever happens in performance. I know it exists because I have on a few occasions experienced that.
So I remain happy for today's music. And unsatisfied. But eternally hopeful that I will encounter what I seek again, likely when I am least expecting it. And I will hold my breath while breathing. And *then* I will be happy to stand in recognition not of a job well done, but of an unforgettable open sharing of life.
Pity the concert hall was barely half filled. On a rainy Sunday afternoon, this concert, which was free to all comers, was a treat. Badura-Skoda, an Austrian pianist (whose list of conductors for whom he has played reads like a Who's Who of famous musicians), may be 80, but his proficiency still far surpasses what Rochesterians are accustomed to.
He began the program with several little Schubert waltzes, delightful light fare, the last of which was particularly charming. Smiling, nodding to the audience, his fingers tripped over the keys with accustomed familiarity, floating the dancing phrases out above our heads with joy.
Then he presented Schubert's Piano Impromptu Opus 142 No. 1 in f minor. If a bit slow, I could clearly hear Schubert, feel his soul despite the piano's wont to overplay the bass and underplay the trebles. It was as if Badura-Skoda threw each phrase a gasping, gutted fish onto the stage where we barely had a chance to digest it before he threw the next one out, stopping sometimes for us to catch up, watching us wrestle with the slippery slimy mass.
Our society has so much to absorb, so much to explore, to digest, that we have become either a vast lake a quarter inch deep, or a mile deep hole one inch wide. We haven't the wherewithal to assess our musical encounters well.
Whether Badura-Skoda is at his peak or not, one cannot help but realize his expertise, his grasp of so much music, playing from memory, moving stiff fingers in rutted patterns with ease. One needn't be a musical genius to recognize his mastery of piano. His musicianship showed best in Schubert's chamber piece the Trout.
From my vantage point, I could watch his hands. Sometimes they hovered delicately over the keys, like a hummingbird darting in for sweet nectar. Sometimes they crawled tarantulan like deep into the valleys between the black mountains. At one point his hands were traveling in opposite directions rapidly, and it looked like he was stripping the peel from an orange, laying bare the succulent fruit for our ears. Sometimes his fingers worked like pistons, pumping the sound out of an oil rig. During one long trill, his hands vibrated like a cell phone. It was artistry to watch, punctuated by aural delights.
Despite the paper rustling, coughing, squeaky chair, velcro ripping, heavy breathing, head nodding, snorting distractions of the audience, the music was refreshing. And yet. As accomplished as he is, as well known, as experienced, I got the sense he was not giving us of himself. For a musician noted for his passion, I did not get a glimpse of his own soul.
Don't get me wrong, the notes were all there (and there were a lot of them), the phrasing enticing, his connection with the other performers faultless, the music was good. I enjoyed it. But it was a surface skimmer. I glided gently along without being made aware of the world beneath the surface that I know exists.
Granted I would a whole lot rather hear good music than badly performed music. But it was just music. I want more. I want that magical in the moment breath holding riveting spell binding suspension of time nowness that rarely ever happens in performance. I know it exists because I have on a few occasions experienced that.
So I remain happy for today's music. And unsatisfied. But eternally hopeful that I will encounter what I seek again, likely when I am least expecting it. And I will hold my breath while breathing. And *then* I will be happy to stand in recognition not of a job well done, but of an unforgettable open sharing of life.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Crying at Weddings
I was honored to be invited to the wedding of the daughter of a co-worker in the library. It was a last minute invitation. Some guests from out of town and rsvp'd their acceptance only to discover that they could not attend. So food had been had ordered for them that the mother of the bride did not wish to waste, and I got the invite. I didn't know the bride or groom, but I was happy to attend and participate in their joy. Besides, others from the library were going, so I would know people there.
The couple had already married a few years ago, the groom being a marine and his being stationed where ever it was had hastened their marriage. But this was the big celebration, the official marking of the event. The ceremony was at 2:00pm, and began with a video of the two separate lives juxtaposed in age-appropriate photos of cuteness straight through until they were together. The music behind the pictures underscored their feelings for each other. It was right out of a Disney movie.
I watched the beautiful young woman adorned in a gorgeous full flowing white lace dress come down the aisle, preceded by the bridesmaids in muted green gowns, the maid of honor, and the two flower girls. It was picture book. Everyone was coiffed and bedecked beautifully. They lighted the symbolic candle, hugged the Moms, gave them roses, said their own vows, and then so quickly and glibly said "I do."
"Wait!" I wanted to yell. "Not so fast. Do you know - do you really understand what you are saying?" Its so easy to vow commitment without knowing the terms under which you will be asked to honor them. I looked around. Everyone was crying.
The Moms and Grandmoms were bawling, the aunts, the bridesmaids - in fact, it seemed like ALL the women in the room were dabbing at their eyes. "Why is that?" I wondered. "Why do we cry at weddings?"
I know why the woman next to me was crying. She is wrestling with a dysfunctional marriage due to previously undiagnosed mental problems of her husband. I know how painful that can be. I know why the bride's aunt was doing more bawling than usual. The bride's father had passed away several years ago unexpectedly at a rather young age. His presence was acknowledged by the photo on the platform, and the fact that the bride's two brothers gave her away (and they were both crying).
But in general, why do women cry at weddings? Is it because we know what is coming, know that this moment of bliss should be cherished because it will soon be obliterated by piles of dishes and dirty laundry? Is it because we remember what it is to be young and in love and on top of a world we no longer find so bright and shiny? Or is it because we envy her the attention and thoughtful gestures her companion is showering her with, gestures that soon fade and fall by the wayside.
Or is it really because we are all hoping for her, for this newcomer to marriage, hoping that somehow she will be one of the lucky ones who will, despite all the hazards of life, get to live the happily-ever-after fable we all believe in. I have seen one or two couples who got that dream. At ninety, they were still remarkably in love, still regarded each other with respect and esteem, still treated each other as equals, were still deeply in love, still looked forward to waking in the morning and facing each day together on whatever great adventure the day would bring forth.
They had their storms and difficulties, but they helped each other through it, worked to minimize the scars, salved each other's wounds, made sure the other was alright. Survived matrimony and ended up as friends. I rarely see that. Still, it is what marriage was meant to be. Companionship. Caring. Helping each other out. And not losing the passion. Not hot physical passion. Deep abiding oneness.
Its out there. Its not common. I don't know about others, but I think perhaps that is why I cry at weddings where I don't even know the bride. I think it is an admission that I failed to achieve that dream. I recognize that after the death of a son, the severity of poverty, the hurt of betrayal, the pain of cancer, I have too many life wounds that left deep scars, scars healed only by the hand of God. That dream of growing old with my true love will never be for me.
But this one, she might get there. I hope she does.
The couple had already married a few years ago, the groom being a marine and his being stationed where ever it was had hastened their marriage. But this was the big celebration, the official marking of the event. The ceremony was at 2:00pm, and began with a video of the two separate lives juxtaposed in age-appropriate photos of cuteness straight through until they were together. The music behind the pictures underscored their feelings for each other. It was right out of a Disney movie.
I watched the beautiful young woman adorned in a gorgeous full flowing white lace dress come down the aisle, preceded by the bridesmaids in muted green gowns, the maid of honor, and the two flower girls. It was picture book. Everyone was coiffed and bedecked beautifully. They lighted the symbolic candle, hugged the Moms, gave them roses, said their own vows, and then so quickly and glibly said "I do."
"Wait!" I wanted to yell. "Not so fast. Do you know - do you really understand what you are saying?" Its so easy to vow commitment without knowing the terms under which you will be asked to honor them. I looked around. Everyone was crying.
The Moms and Grandmoms were bawling, the aunts, the bridesmaids - in fact, it seemed like ALL the women in the room were dabbing at their eyes. "Why is that?" I wondered. "Why do we cry at weddings?"
I know why the woman next to me was crying. She is wrestling with a dysfunctional marriage due to previously undiagnosed mental problems of her husband. I know how painful that can be. I know why the bride's aunt was doing more bawling than usual. The bride's father had passed away several years ago unexpectedly at a rather young age. His presence was acknowledged by the photo on the platform, and the fact that the bride's two brothers gave her away (and they were both crying).
But in general, why do women cry at weddings? Is it because we know what is coming, know that this moment of bliss should be cherished because it will soon be obliterated by piles of dishes and dirty laundry? Is it because we remember what it is to be young and in love and on top of a world we no longer find so bright and shiny? Or is it because we envy her the attention and thoughtful gestures her companion is showering her with, gestures that soon fade and fall by the wayside.
Or is it really because we are all hoping for her, for this newcomer to marriage, hoping that somehow she will be one of the lucky ones who will, despite all the hazards of life, get to live the happily-ever-after fable we all believe in. I have seen one or two couples who got that dream. At ninety, they were still remarkably in love, still regarded each other with respect and esteem, still treated each other as equals, were still deeply in love, still looked forward to waking in the morning and facing each day together on whatever great adventure the day would bring forth.
They had their storms and difficulties, but they helped each other through it, worked to minimize the scars, salved each other's wounds, made sure the other was alright. Survived matrimony and ended up as friends. I rarely see that. Still, it is what marriage was meant to be. Companionship. Caring. Helping each other out. And not losing the passion. Not hot physical passion. Deep abiding oneness.
Its out there. Its not common. I don't know about others, but I think perhaps that is why I cry at weddings where I don't even know the bride. I think it is an admission that I failed to achieve that dream. I recognize that after the death of a son, the severity of poverty, the hurt of betrayal, the pain of cancer, I have too many life wounds that left deep scars, scars healed only by the hand of God. That dream of growing old with my true love will never be for me.
But this one, she might get there. I hope she does.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Convocations
Today Roberts Wesleyan College and Charles Finney High School both had a Convocation. A calling together of all those involved to begin the new school year with focus, purpose, unity. All faculty at RWC were robed and hooded and marched to trumpets and organs with flags flying and mortarboard tassels swinging. We processed from the back of Hale Auditorium in the Cultural Life Center to the platform where we were seated during President Martin's and Provost Zwier's addresses, and watched in admiration as faculty were recognized for their years of service - from 5 years all the way to 35 years!
It was inspiring to hear the expectations of the administration as they outlined our progress, laid out a high standard of expectation, recognized jobs well done, and encouraged the students to embrace their time here, wringing out as much meat and juice as they can rather than sleeping and sliding through, just to get to the other side.
I don't often march in convocations. We were invited to participate in such events at Illinois, appropriately garbed, but it was such a large institution, and no one else from the libraries participated or asked me to join in, so I never did. At Eastman, Convocation was much simpler. Faculty attended as they were able, but didn't robe. Speakers were the main part of the ceremony, and I usually attended because the speakers were notable and interesting, or their topics provocative.
I have to say I felt proud to wear the Illinois colors on my hood, and represent the library discipline. These time honored traditions aren't well understood by students, and most of them don't attend - they find it boring and a waste of their time. They will, I suspect, come to appreciate it as I have. You need to mark beginnings with some pomp and tradition. You need to set aside time to look at what you are doing and why. And you need to make it memorable.
Who can forget all those robed professors proudly upholding the institution, showing what it took for them to get there, their efforts, studies, qualifications. What other part of society does this? Certainly not retail, not manufacturing, not health care, not self employed business, nor law nor tech stuff.
I'm glad to know the school where Drew is going also takes time to say what they are about, to recognize their teachers, to reinforce the positives, to dedicate their time, energy, effort to the development of young men and women who will lead our society. I for one want to know that the upcoming generations have some sort of grounding, at least some foundation for societal impact for the better if not spiritual growth.
At the other end of the school year, we will robe again, and recognize the students who have accomplished their goal of completing an RWC education. It will be interesting to see how that relates to today.
It was inspiring to hear the expectations of the administration as they outlined our progress, laid out a high standard of expectation, recognized jobs well done, and encouraged the students to embrace their time here, wringing out as much meat and juice as they can rather than sleeping and sliding through, just to get to the other side.
I don't often march in convocations. We were invited to participate in such events at Illinois, appropriately garbed, but it was such a large institution, and no one else from the libraries participated or asked me to join in, so I never did. At Eastman, Convocation was much simpler. Faculty attended as they were able, but didn't robe. Speakers were the main part of the ceremony, and I usually attended because the speakers were notable and interesting, or their topics provocative.
I have to say I felt proud to wear the Illinois colors on my hood, and represent the library discipline. These time honored traditions aren't well understood by students, and most of them don't attend - they find it boring and a waste of their time. They will, I suspect, come to appreciate it as I have. You need to mark beginnings with some pomp and tradition. You need to set aside time to look at what you are doing and why. And you need to make it memorable.
Who can forget all those robed professors proudly upholding the institution, showing what it took for them to get there, their efforts, studies, qualifications. What other part of society does this? Certainly not retail, not manufacturing, not health care, not self employed business, nor law nor tech stuff.
I'm glad to know the school where Drew is going also takes time to say what they are about, to recognize their teachers, to reinforce the positives, to dedicate their time, energy, effort to the development of young men and women who will lead our society. I for one want to know that the upcoming generations have some sort of grounding, at least some foundation for societal impact for the better if not spiritual growth.
At the other end of the school year, we will robe again, and recognize the students who have accomplished their goal of completing an RWC education. It will be interesting to see how that relates to today.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
First Rehearsal
Tonight I had my first rehearsal with the United Methodist Church of North Chili's adult choir. They have a community dinner at 6, and I popped in to make sure things were set up. I am most blessed to have - for the first time in my experience - a choir librarian who is amazing! She had all the chairs in place, all the folders populated with the appropriate music, my letter of welcome printed and placed in the folder with a nicely sharpened pencil, a list of Sunday's music, the proper stuff in the bulletin, and the room prepared complete with a sign telling them what hymnals they would need! Wow! She took half my workload - all those non-musical aspects of conducting that are so time consuming - and what a difference that makes! I think all church music directors would like to be able to concentrate on the music and not get caught up in so much paperwork and clerical details.
The rehearsal went well. I only introduced 4 pieces (I like to work 5 Sundays ahead) but since it was our first time together, and since we are singing on Sunday, and since the piece I chose wasn't simple, I spent more time reworking Sunday's selection than I normally would. Energy was good, response from the singers good, and our oboe soloist added just the right interest to tweak curious minds.
I usually like to set a theme for the fall, to encourage us to contemplate some particular aspect of God, some grace that seems needed for whatever the congregation may be facing. But I don't know anything about this congregation as yet, though I have met with the pastor twice and heard from her heart. So I am reading the Sunday scriptures to them during our devotional. That will help us think ahead to what Sunday will bring, help us lead others in worship.
And as I get to know the people and the place they are in, I will hopefully have a better sense of how to encourage, what Scriptures to offer, what prayers to raise to the throne of God. Meanwhile, I am focusing on having them listen - really listen - to the music not just of their parts but of the other parts, of the piano, of the text, of the intent of the composer. I want them to sing not just with their voices, but with their understanding, and even more than that, from their hearts. To make the music their own, to offer it as their own prayer, their own words to God, to find their way into the presence of the King. And once they have experienced that, they will want to help others get there too.
For once you have experienced that intimate loving presence of the Most Holy God, you will not forget. You will want everyone to find their way there, to experience His love and care. So that's the journey I am on. I hope and pray the year will be good.
The rehearsal went well. I only introduced 4 pieces (I like to work 5 Sundays ahead) but since it was our first time together, and since we are singing on Sunday, and since the piece I chose wasn't simple, I spent more time reworking Sunday's selection than I normally would. Energy was good, response from the singers good, and our oboe soloist added just the right interest to tweak curious minds.
I usually like to set a theme for the fall, to encourage us to contemplate some particular aspect of God, some grace that seems needed for whatever the congregation may be facing. But I don't know anything about this congregation as yet, though I have met with the pastor twice and heard from her heart. So I am reading the Sunday scriptures to them during our devotional. That will help us think ahead to what Sunday will bring, help us lead others in worship.
And as I get to know the people and the place they are in, I will hopefully have a better sense of how to encourage, what Scriptures to offer, what prayers to raise to the throne of God. Meanwhile, I am focusing on having them listen - really listen - to the music not just of their parts but of the other parts, of the piano, of the text, of the intent of the composer. I want them to sing not just with their voices, but with their understanding, and even more than that, from their hearts. To make the music their own, to offer it as their own prayer, their own words to God, to find their way into the presence of the King. And once they have experienced that, they will want to help others get there too.
For once you have experienced that intimate loving presence of the Most Holy God, you will not forget. You will want everyone to find their way there, to experience His love and care. So that's the journey I am on. I hope and pray the year will be good.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Open House
Tonight the library sponsored an open house for the RWC students. We set up our table on the plaza outside, set out a few helium mylar balloons, populated the table with "Free Stuff" and encouraged everyone to explore the exotic places in our new building.
For the brave and adventurous, we offered a passport that they could take around to eight different places where we had strategically located staff who could tell them about some unique aspect of the building. We created powerpoint 1 minute shows that we mounted on digital picture frames, and once they had viewed the powerpoint and spoken with the staff person, they got their passport stamped.
For everyone who got some of the 8 stamps, we gave a free highlighter with the library name printed on it or a memo clip with the library logo. For those who got all 8 stamps, they put their passport in a box for the drawing for a free iPod.
For a Wednesday evening with little PR, we got well over 100 students to come through, gave away all the candy and popcorn, and a lot of red pencils with our logo on it, and in general talked with a lot more people who didn't have time to come in then because they had a class or needed to squeeze in dinner between meetings.
75 entered the drawing. For the first time doing an open house, I consider it pretty successful. We reached 100+ out of 1800 students. Might have been as high as 1%. All things considered, not a bad beginning.
For the brave and adventurous, we offered a passport that they could take around to eight different places where we had strategically located staff who could tell them about some unique aspect of the building. We created powerpoint 1 minute shows that we mounted on digital picture frames, and once they had viewed the powerpoint and spoken with the staff person, they got their passport stamped.
For everyone who got some of the 8 stamps, we gave a free highlighter with the library name printed on it or a memo clip with the library logo. For those who got all 8 stamps, they put their passport in a box for the drawing for a free iPod.
For a Wednesday evening with little PR, we got well over 100 students to come through, gave away all the candy and popcorn, and a lot of red pencils with our logo on it, and in general talked with a lot more people who didn't have time to come in then because they had a class or needed to squeeze in dinner between meetings.
75 entered the drawing. For the first time doing an open house, I consider it pretty successful. We reached 100+ out of 1800 students. Might have been as high as 1%. All things considered, not a bad beginning.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Hair Cut
There is a quaint little house on the corner of Buffalo Road and the side street we take when we are walking home. I have often cut across their lawn without paying too much attention. I figure I can't hurt the grass since its all brown from lack of water, and the place seemed to be some sort of business. Its called Beach Fx. I saw a neon sign for tanning, and another one for nails.
I remembered it from last time we lived here, and I think it was a barbershop then. Its right across the street from Pearce Church. Well, I was beginning to realize that its been 2 months since that last disastrous hair cut in Connecticut, and time has arrived to find a hairdresser who can at very least cut my thin hair, not even considering anything beyond that.
So as I was walking home the other day thinking about upcoming events like the student open house, my first choir rehearsal and first Sunday in a new church, the big ribbon cutting ceremony, I knew I had to find a place to get my hair trimmed. I was just at the corner by Beach Fx when I realized that they indeed offered hair dresser services. So I made an appointment for today.
It was a bit offputting when I met the young girl who would be cutting my hair. She had streaks of red, blue, and pink in her own black dyed hair, a nose ring, several sets of earrings and clothes that looked like parts were missing - that intentional raggedy look.
But she had a pleasant smile and a pronounceable name, and greeted me warmly, so I sat in her chair and we chatted about what I had in mind. I wasn't too hopeful - just that I not end up looking strange because of all the upcoming events. She talked about long days, hectic schedules, life being demanding and confusing, and punctuated her dialog with queries about how I wanted things done as she snipped away.
It was a relief not to have to talk much, mostly nod and be understanding. At least I didn't need to tell her how my hair got so thin, how I ended up with these glaring bald spots, howcome I am not coloring my gray hair because that would make me look so much younger.
She didn't comment on anything or make any observations as so many beauticians do. She did not try to sell me "product" or talk me into anything I didn't ask for. She just did what I asked, and did it well and quickly. It was nice. And I ended up with a decent cut. Sometimes looks and names can be a bit misleading. I am not into obtaining any beach effects or strange colorations or a raggedy look. But they accommodated my conventionality without comment.
Now I just have to find a barber for Drew. He has made it quite clear that he doesn't like the "girlie" cuts he has had to endure. I am planning to take him to the Italian shop over by the old IGA. We shall see how that goes.
I remembered it from last time we lived here, and I think it was a barbershop then. Its right across the street from Pearce Church. Well, I was beginning to realize that its been 2 months since that last disastrous hair cut in Connecticut, and time has arrived to find a hairdresser who can at very least cut my thin hair, not even considering anything beyond that.
So as I was walking home the other day thinking about upcoming events like the student open house, my first choir rehearsal and first Sunday in a new church, the big ribbon cutting ceremony, I knew I had to find a place to get my hair trimmed. I was just at the corner by Beach Fx when I realized that they indeed offered hair dresser services. So I made an appointment for today.
It was a bit offputting when I met the young girl who would be cutting my hair. She had streaks of red, blue, and pink in her own black dyed hair, a nose ring, several sets of earrings and clothes that looked like parts were missing - that intentional raggedy look.
But she had a pleasant smile and a pronounceable name, and greeted me warmly, so I sat in her chair and we chatted about what I had in mind. I wasn't too hopeful - just that I not end up looking strange because of all the upcoming events. She talked about long days, hectic schedules, life being demanding and confusing, and punctuated her dialog with queries about how I wanted things done as she snipped away.
It was a relief not to have to talk much, mostly nod and be understanding. At least I didn't need to tell her how my hair got so thin, how I ended up with these glaring bald spots, howcome I am not coloring my gray hair because that would make me look so much younger.
She didn't comment on anything or make any observations as so many beauticians do. She did not try to sell me "product" or talk me into anything I didn't ask for. She just did what I asked, and did it well and quickly. It was nice. And I ended up with a decent cut. Sometimes looks and names can be a bit misleading. I am not into obtaining any beach effects or strange colorations or a raggedy look. But they accommodated my conventionality without comment.
Now I just have to find a barber for Drew. He has made it quite clear that he doesn't like the "girlie" cuts he has had to endure. I am planning to take him to the Italian shop over by the old IGA. We shall see how that goes.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Midnight Moon
It had been a crazy closing. Just when you think you have everything under control, something new pops up. Back doors not locked when they should be, gate keys that won't turn (the locks are new), lights that go off inexplicably - I know this is a new building, but really!
We finally got everything secure, and I walked out the front doors and around the side of the library to the parking lot. My car still had the sun visors stuck in the window to keep the heat of the sun from roasting the steering wheel. No need for that in the middle of the night (OK, I know midnight is not really the middle of the night for most, but it's way past my normal bed time). I pulled the ovals from the windshield and tossed them into the back seat.
The sky was cloudless and bright from the moon's brilliance - a sort of surrealistic clarity highlighted the buildings and dorms. I sat for a moment in the driver's seat and enjoyed the scene. Dark trees silhouetted against cobalt sky. Students wandering about, talking and laughing. Music playing from some distant place.
I realized that the moon, though round and big, was not full. The lower edge was misshapen, waning away. Yet one would not know that from the amount of light it cast. It was still quite effective. That's the way I sometimes feel. After cancer, I am missing a lot of vitality I used to enjoy. I am no longer at my full zenith. But I'll be darned if that will keep me from functionality to the full extent that I am able to still perform. I may be missing stuff, but for the parts that remain, I am determined to function at 100% for as long as I am able.
We finally got everything secure, and I walked out the front doors and around the side of the library to the parking lot. My car still had the sun visors stuck in the window to keep the heat of the sun from roasting the steering wheel. No need for that in the middle of the night (OK, I know midnight is not really the middle of the night for most, but it's way past my normal bed time). I pulled the ovals from the windshield and tossed them into the back seat.
The sky was cloudless and bright from the moon's brilliance - a sort of surrealistic clarity highlighted the buildings and dorms. I sat for a moment in the driver's seat and enjoyed the scene. Dark trees silhouetted against cobalt sky. Students wandering about, talking and laughing. Music playing from some distant place.
I realized that the moon, though round and big, was not full. The lower edge was misshapen, waning away. Yet one would not know that from the amount of light it cast. It was still quite effective. That's the way I sometimes feel. After cancer, I am missing a lot of vitality I used to enjoy. I am no longer at my full zenith. But I'll be darned if that will keep me from functionality to the full extent that I am able to still perform. I may be missing stuff, but for the parts that remain, I am determined to function at 100% for as long as I am able.
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