Getting Warm

These days I can't seem to get warm. Even on days when its not so cold outside. Somehow my core temperature just won't get cooking. I wrap up in blankets, bundle in sweaters, double sock my feet, and go to bed with hot water bottles every night. Nothing seems to help, not even the extra layer of fat around my middle.

There's no particular reason for me to always feel cold. I am not ill. I am not spending days outside. I am not sitting inactive. In fact, I try to walk as much as I can, just to get the blood moving.

The only thing that seems to help is to wait until I have safely delivered the carpool kids to school, and on the way back to work, I crank the heater knob to the reddest part of the dial, turn the fan to the highest setting, and swivel all the ducts towards myself. I get a good 40 minute drive with hot, hot, hot. Its enough to make a greenhouse envious.

About the time I am pulling into the parking lot at the library, I am warm. It is exquisite. I sit there for a few minutes with my fingers hugging the vents, letting my body shiver out the last ounce of cold, wishing I could just stay there.

But alas! I must open the car door and step out, sad at how quickly the warmth evaporates and I am back to coldness. No steaming cup of hot tea, no wool sweater, no space heater can work the same magic. I must content myself with the knowledge that I will drive carpool again soon.

And maybe, when I retire, I can live in the tropics!

Late Training

Whoever invented the saying 'better late than never' was obviously not required to come back to work after a full day to do a training session for students. Not that I mind training students. Of course, it should have been the job of my circulation supervisor. She isn't up to it and is still struggling to keep things at the desk working - a real uptick in activity for her in the new building, one she is none too happy to find herself dealing with.

So I am in charge of the students who have upper level responsibilities and can sub for staff when needed. They are all good students, very responsible, interested in doing a good job, willing to go the extra mile despite the measly pay increase. So back I drag myself for the 9pm session. I have promised munchies, and I stop at Tim Horton's to grab some Tidbits and Dove chocolates.

I realize how different their lives are from mine. They are at the high point of their day, transitioning from 'student' to 'social life' - they are alive, bright-eyed, animated, laughing, looking forward to spending time with friends. I am yawning, slightly fuzzy, bleary-eyed, looking forward to spending time sitting down alone.

Its that way except on nights when I get to do music. Nights when I am directing choir practice, selecting songs for PrayerSong, attending Compline, singing. Then I am awake, energetic, focused - even if I have been up for hours and pummeling out work at the library and home. Ah, me. So often I wish I lived in a world that was all music. Maybe that's what heaven will be.

Meantime, we step through the agenda, they seem happy to learn how to supervise students, how to close the building, how to do the advanced circulation pieces. The hour flies by before I realize, and soon I am heading off for my snug little bed and they to their various activities. It wasn't bad at all, intersecting with a different world. Even if it wasn't a music one.

Tough Cookie

It took me forever to get an appointment with the head of the chaplaincy department of Roswell Cancer Institute in Buffalo. Online, their spiritual support for cancer patients looks amazing! They seemed to offer the most services and pastoral care of anyplace I had ever seen. I contacted them to see if there was some event where we (PrayerSong) might come and sing. I thought they would send me contact info, or a schedule or form, or some resource about how to sign up or training we could take etc.

Instead, the head of the program said I had to meet with her first. So I asked for an appointment, and it was like pulling teeth to get a time set. I thought she must be terribly busy and wondered that she was willing to meet with people right at the start. She cancelled the first appointment, then asked to meet on a day I had to teach a class. I explained my working situation, and she sent me a rather curt email with a mutually acceptable date to meet.

I wasn't sure what I expected, really. But certainly not what I got. She began our conversation with a defensive "I'm pretty sure I can't help you." and it went downhill from there. It was as if she had already decided against letting me be involved in anyway with anyone. I could tell that from her explosive, "We don't let anyone in a patient's room without a rigorous training process that requires 22 weeks of intensive meetings and complete commitment. It takes a whole year, and I have to know you intimately before I will even consider allowing you to talk to a patient. And even then I don't let most of the people who go through the program deal directly with patients."

I tactfully tried to ask about chapel services, which elicited, "I am not about to let some Christian cram their God down the throat of a dying patient. Don't get me wrong, I am a Christian, but you people have no idea what its like to have cancer." Hum. I made the mistake of mentioning that I had been through cancer and in fact may still be dealing with it. That's when things really blew up. I cannot imagine what precipitated her outburst, but something must have burned her hard. She went off like a Roman candle, her arms flailing the air, her voice getting louder and louder.

I started praying, "Lord, show me what to do, what to say. Are you closing the door here? Should I just leave? What am I doing here? What are you showing me?" I just got quiet and let her talk. She was definitely advocating - not interfaith service, but a no-faith inoffensive mishmosh of nothing specific. They do 2 annual services for family members who have lost a loved one to cancer - nothing religious in them. They do Catholic mass since 65% of their patients are Catholic - no music. You can't do any music that even remotely smacks of one type of faith over another. After all, what happens if a Muslim happens to attend a service and you are singing a Baptist hymn? Or a Jewish person. He will be offended. . .

I listened respectfully for awhile. I think she thought I would leave. I just kept asking what might be allowed. How could we help? What are the rules? She finally quieted down, and suggested that I talk with the head of volunteer services to sing in the lobby. Has to be at noontime. Can't be anything religious. Doesn't affect her program in any way. Translation: go away and leave me alone. I began to chat a bit, telling her about myself, my background, my training.

I think she finally realized I was not who she thought I was, whatever that might be. She finally said, "You wouldn't believe the nuts who are coming out of the woodwork lately who just want to make themselves feel better at someone else's expense." Then we were both quiet for a few minutes while her sentence faded from the air. I sat still and waited. Finally she told me about a workshop she was sponsoring on Friday. A gentleman who had national expertise in dealing with the terminally ill. She showed me the flier. I knew inside that I was to sign up for it, so I did on the spot without even knowing much about it.

And as soon as I did that, I felt a release to leave. She seemed much friendlier as I exited her little office. Not sure what that was all about. Perhaps the Lord sent me to be a shock absorber. That's fine. Perhaps it is the beginning of a tough relationship. Perhaps she puts everyone through the same process to see who might pass her test. Perhaps she just found out she has cancer, or just lost someone she loves to cancer. I don't know. We shall see what the good Lord has in mind.

Meanwhile, I am a bit reeling from the very idea that it is inappropriate to offer hope to those who might be seeking answers as they face their final hours on earth. If not then, when?

Daylight!!!

One aspect of winter that I have adjusted to is the darkness. I leave for work in the morning, and sit in the parking lot waiting for the carpool connection in the dark. Day comes so subtly that one moment it is night, and suddenly you realize its daylight.

Going home after work - even when I leave at 5 like I'm supposed to - means walking to your car under the streetlights in the new parking lot. I've never been a big fan of driving at night though in winter one can hardly avoid it. It jsut seems like everytime I have to go outside, its dark.

So tonight, I packed up my ergonomic backpack (which I absolutely love), struggled into my black boots, laced them up, hoisted myself into my gray wool coat, wound my purple wool scarf around my face, pulled on my black lined gloves, settled my gray wool hat down over what's left of my hair, slung my purse over my shoulder, and headed out the door to my car. I trudged past the circulation desk, waving to the students on duty who giggled at my snowprotection garb, pushed the interior door open, and was blinded by the sun!

What is this? Am I leaving too early? I check my cell phone (watches are so passe). 5:32. No, its more than time to head for home. But the sun is still shining brightly despite the frigid cold. How is that possible? How wonderful! What a relief!

I stand just inside the foyer, basking in the warmth of the overhead heater and the sun streaming in through the glass doors. Students come and go, blasting me with coldness that I know I will have to face. But for a moment, just a brief moment, I can see summer coming, summer with its pleasant evening hours of daylight and its warm breezy days. I can almost imagine a sandy beach and a tall ice tea!

Amazing Moon

For the past week, it seems as if there has been the most amazing full moon shining down on Rochester. When I wake in the morning, it is full and bright against the dark velvet of the nighttime sky, lighting every bush and alley with sharp clarity. I watch with wonder as it morphs into a white silver disk fading into the daytime sky. Its full benevolent light continues to caress the city, twinkling with fairy tale promise as the day wiggles to life. It looks over my shoulder as I go about my business, suddenly appearing over the skyline as I drive carpool, jumping out from behind a building as I park on campus, rising unbidden from the marshy cattails nodding unconcernedly in the crevasses of the highway.

It is not the maple sugar moon of which I am so fond. The weather is out of sync this year, not cooperating with its own norms. Nor is it hiding as a winter moon is wont to do, masking its beauty in the clouds of snowstorms and blizzards. Considering the catastrophic conditions across the continent, I would think it should be blushing in shame at the devastation occurring in California, the torment on the east coast, the drowning of the Midwest. But it refuses to take any part of the blame and goes right on shining happily, bathing the world in the beauty of its light.

It is amazing, the clear light that helps me pick my steps homeward after a long Sunday shift in the library. It has been a day chock full of choirs and singing and preaching (I get asked to do that from time to time, and I don't mind really) and chime choir and writing and helping and walking and keeping order. I shall be happy for its company as I wend my way to Compline to nestle in the arms of Christ, to draw comfort from His words, to be uplifted by the song of the true Light.

Thank you, moon, for sharing. Stay as long as you like.

Turquoise Toilet

There it sat on the edge of Westside Drive right down the street from the church. A discarded turquoise toilet standing forlornly at the edge of the road, awaiting pickup. Why it had been done away with, I do not know. It looked whole and perfect, not cracked or discolored. Perhaps its an outdated model and the owners prefer one that uses less water to flush, or makes less noise. Perhaps they remodeled the bathroom and did away with the turquoise color scheme. Or maybe they were just tired of looking at it.

Whatever the reason, it has been there for over a week now, jarringly out of place in the pristine white snow upon which it sits. It looks so alone sitting there, unused, unconnected, a relic of an era gone by. I, for one, would not like to have it representing my family abode for all the world to see. I mean, really, it seems to be making a statement of some time. (Life is crap? Crap happens? We have no crap here?) Of course, every family experiences times when it feels as if life has gone down the toilet, but most families prefer to keep that to themselves and not air their dirty laundry to the world. They can't really use it for a mailbox, it wouldn't be much use as a plow guide, and I can't see it working very well as a bench.

I think it bothers me most because I deal often with people who are jarringly out of place in their job. They are doing something for which they do not have the right gifts and skills. There is nothing wrong with the person, just with what they are trying to do. They are not very good at whatever it is they have been hired to do. And they get downright distraught when they are told that they should try something else, something for which they are more suited.

Toilets have it easy. They know exactly what they are made to do. Oh, you could use them for a planter if you really wanted, but everyone would recognize that its not the best use. People are a little trickier. Most everyone else can tell you what you are good at or not good at. Few know themselves well enough to see the truth. In this age of job upheaval, I see a lot of well made and functional people sitting by the side of the road, cast aside because they were not doing what they are good at and someone got tired enough of the shoddy work to address the problem.

I hope someone who needs a good toilet comes by soon and picks the darn thing up. And I hope people who are cast aside from a job get snapped up by someone who recognizes their skills and gifts and knows just how to connect them.

Frustration

The waiting room was crammed at 4pm when I arrived for my dentist appointment. I sure hoped that didn't mean they were running that far behind. I had visions of sitting there for hours waiting for them to catch up.

After ten minutes or so, the door opened, and tall man in a wheelchair came rolling out. He looked to be in his sixties or so, with a full thick head of white hair. He looked strong and athletic as he motored over to the receptionist window and handed her his chart.

Unfortunately, when he went to speak, no one could understand him. He must have had a stroke or something and his speech was so garbled and slurred you could make little sense of it. Yet it was obvious that he was a man of intelligence. His brain was not the problem.

The girls behind the desk tried to understand, really they tried. It took me almost as long as it took them to figure out what he wanted as he repeated his query over and over and over. They kept responding according to what they thought he was saying, first directing him to the outer lobby to wait for his taxi, assuring him that the appropriate agency had already been called, then thinking he needed his coat (never mind, he has that), then informing him that his next appointment had already been made, then telling him that the financial statement would be mailed - I think they went through their mental checklist of everything people come to their desk to ask for.

He just kept repeating the same pattern phrase again and again and again. It was as if you could hear him say, "I am not stupid. I have a valid need. Please figure it out." I was amazed that he didn't get angry or upset, and equally amazed that he didn't give up. I don't know about his frustration levels, but mine were rising and I wasn't even part of the scenario.

Finally, after calling several other girls from the back, someone remembered that he had come in with an envelope of xrays. He was asking for them back. As soon as they knew that's what he wanted, they fell all over themselves getting it. After he left, you could feel the relief - and the irritation - in the room. They were glad they had finally figured it out, but frustrated that he was such a nuisance about it. All they really wanted was for him to go away so they could move on with their mindless work of dealing with the normal issues. And I think there was just a touch of respect that it had turned out that he had a valid reason for the continued pestering.

So that's a bit how I feel about this "now you have it, now you don't" thing. I am trying to tell the doctors how I feel and what's wrong, but it comes out all garbled and they are guessing all the normal things, but its not a normal thing. If I can just somehow get them to think outside the usual things they encounter, maybe we can get this figured out!

Kindly Dr. Welby

I'm not crazy about the idea of bouncing around between the east and west side of Rochester. There was no help for it. First, drive carpool to the east side, then head back to work on the west side, then off towards the east side for my appointment with the Ear, Nose, Throat specialist. Though listed as being part of Strong hospital, the clinic was actually out towards Brighton in a quiet neighborhood near 390. Bottom floor was a cardiology unit, top floor the ENT guys. They had a quiet reception area with a pleasant view. It wasn't crowded, and in a few minutes a nurse called my name and ushered me into an exam room for the usual vitals and questions, ending with "the doctor will be with you shortly."

As I sat waiting for the doctor to appear, I was tempted to tip my head back against the wall and snooze. It was so peaceful. You couldn't even hear muffled voices from the hallway or bells dinging from the elevator. Fearing getting caught in mid-snore, I resisted the temptation and poked through a stack of Newsweeks and sports magazines looking for something to read. Lacking anything engaging, I pulled out my to-do list and sorted through it, updating and adding. Finally, I put that away and just sat, reflecting on how much of my life I am wasting waiting to "be seen." I guess I am not much different from anyone else in that respect.

There came a gentle knock on the door, a pause ( I finally realized he was waiting for an invitation to enter ), and then he opened the door, a tall elderly man with thick white hair and glasses. He took my hand and greeted me, holding on to my hand while he gazed into my face and sized me up for what felt like a good ten minutes, though I am sure it was not that long. I found myself staring at a man who looked for all the world like Marcus Welby, MD. He was kindly and considerate, his movements slow and deliberate, his attention focused on me, not on my file.

"Ah," I thought. "Here is a person who is not in a hurry. He will listen to what I am saying, he will not make snap decisions based on norms. He will be careful." And in fact, he was. He asked a lot of questions, all the while examining my neck and throat. He never asked me to answer any questions while he was poking about in my mouth with a tongue depressor or mirror. During the exam, I could feel the warmth of the bright light reflecting from the mirror on his head. He was thorough, precise, and paid attention to what I said.

Then he was just quiet while he repeated his exam, looking more closely, feeling some areas over and over. Finally, he lay his instruments down and looked me square in the eye. "I just can't find anything worth biopsying. I read the report, and I should be able to feel some of these glands, but they just aren't there. Even on the PET scan, the active areas in the neck are listed at 1.7 and 1.8 cm, and I am usually reticent to fuss with anything under 2cm. Given your history, of course, we want to proceed, but I can't palpate anything. I am recommending against a biopsy at this time. Let's see what happens on the next PET scan, and I know your oncologist is planning to investigate both the lighted areas of the rectum and the shoulder and arm. Do you agree?"

Do I agree? I am not used to being asked, just told. I do agree. I have said so all along. I don't want to go through cancer again. Of course, I want to do what I have to in order to hang around until Drew gets old enough to survive on his own. But really, I'd just as soon not do any biopsies, no chemo, no radiation. I'm not even sure I understand what happened the first time around, and I don't want to risk repeating something dangerous just in the name of caution. I told him that I had been scheduled for the biopsy, but I had not gone. "Good girl!" he laughed, slapping his knee. "Good for you!"

Will my oncologist leave it alone? I doubt it. But for now, I have a Get Out Of Jail Free card, and I'm using it! Dr. Welby assured me that if anything worrisome shows up on future scans, he will be the first to call me. In the meantime, he will let my oncologist know his findings. And with a pat on the shoulder, he points me toward the exit.

Hum. Well, back to work. Meantime, the oncologist has left me a voice mail about my next PET scan appointment. . .

Patent leather shoes

On these cold, cold winter days, it helps to think of warmer climes and summer days. I was one of the lucky few in my family of eight children who got to spend time in the summer at Gramma's house. My older brother started the tradition, and he got to spend a much longer time there than I did. I felt grown up and important staying with Gram. She had so many exciting things at her place, I hardly knew where to begin.

First of all, her bedrooms were marvelous for exploration, especially the closets. There were knickknacks and travel mementos (my great aunt had taken a cruise in Alaska once and brought back carved seals and fancy brushes and all kinds of wonderful curiosities). You could spend a week examining those treasure troves.

Then there was the kitchen. Gram ran a gift shop from her living room. It eventually took over the whole downstairs. But that meant she didn't have much time for cleaning and housekeeping. So I sorted and discarded moldy things from the fridge, wiped the fronts of her metal cabinets clean, and rearranged things to be more handy (I was never sure whether she appreciated my help or merely indulged me).

Of course, there was the fascination of the chicken coop that sagged in the sun just beyond the garbage pit (in those days, you didn't pay someone to take away your trash, you burned or buried it). I was scared of those grumpy old biddies, but I loved watching Gram scatter their food and take their eggs while they were eating. In the evenings there was settin' in the yard watching traffic and sucking on a cold Fudgscicle. And in the morning you got to feed the extra oatmeal to the birds and squirrels. Life was grand.

Once during every summer, Gram would take me shopping down to the strip mall - the latest fad in shopping elegance. There were lots of stores there, a Carl Co, a Woolworth's, specialty shops - all grand with their decorated window displays. I most like to see what they had in the Thom McCann shoe store window. I rarely ever got new shoes in those days. Mostly either very cheap sneakers or second-hand-store not-quite-the-right-fit shoes.

One summer, I spied a pair of shiny black patent leather shoes. They were to die for. I knew better than to ask for them, but oh how I wished I could have a pair of shoes like that. Gram seemed completely oblivious to the object of my attention. Couldn't she see my nose pressed against the glass? Didn't she notice how slowly I walked by the window every time we passed?

Ah, well. Not for me. I finally gave up thinking about them and concentrated on the ice cream sundae she had bought me at the Woolworth lunch counter. They had this special deal where you picked a balloon and popped it, and whatever price was inside, that was what you paid, no matter how much your tab was. I don't think we ever came out very far ahead on that deal, but I thought Gram was always willing to buy me a treat just to play the game.

Summer ended too soon, and Gram drove me home, my raggedy suitcase thrown in the back of the red pickup. Family get togethers were always an occasion and involved lots of food. Gram stayed until dark, then made the hour drive back to Schenectady from Johnstown. I waved a sad good bye as she backed out of the driveway.

Before slipping into bed that night, I decided to unpack, closing the door on summer and turning to a new school year that would begin in just a few days. I shook out my shirts and put away my toothbrush and socks. Suddenly I noticed a brown package in the bottom of my suitcase. I didn't remember putting anything like that in there. What if something of Gram's inadvertently fell in and she needed it?

I tore open the package, and there before my eyes were those very same black patent leather shoes I had drooled over at the shoe store. When on earth she had bought them I don't know. I sat on the floor of my bedroom and hugged them and laughed right out loud. She HAD noticed. She had heard my heart.

What???

I worked one of those killer days yesterday, you know, the kind that begins at 7am and you get home around 9:30 at night. MLK day means staff have off and librarians hold down the fort. For me, that means covering the areas I supervise, so staying at the Circ Desk all day, fielding questions from the computer lab, reserves, interlibrary loan, the stacks - plus reference when needed.

It was quiet in the morning, only a handful of students and community members defied the cold and the temptation to sleep in. Activity picked up as we neared noon, then settled into a normal busyness as the day wore on.

I always find these times enlightening. Things one does not normally encounter tend to cross the desk on such days, and I always see places where process needs improvement, where there are gaps in service, where the collection should have more organization, etc. Its a day of adding tasks to my already full task list.

I managed to break away at lunch and scoot home to check on Drew who was engaged in a show about buying houses in Aruba. It was filled with interesting information about the architecture, a field he is increasingly interested in. I filled up on soup and fruit while he chattered away, commenting on the program.

Then back to the library for the grueling afternoon/evening marathon. OK, not grueling really. Just long. My energy levels have been sapped by the flu, and I have to admit that by 7 pm, I was flagging, barely managing to hang in there until the 9 pm appearance of the evening building supervisor.

Then my cell phone rang. I stepped into the back area to take the call from my oncologist's office. It was a reminder about my procedure tomorrow.

Wait. I don't *have* a procedure scheduled for tomorrow. What is this about? I'm scheduled to have a biopsy TOMORROW? I don't think so. No one told ME about it. I have to see the ENT first. Who is doing this biopsy? Radiation? They don't do biopsies. This is all wrong.

The nurse is a bit befuddled. Apparently I am the second patient this evening who didn't know about an appointment. Besides they didn't have any bloodwork so they had already faxed a request to the lab so I could have that done before the 10am procedure. Bloodwork? My head is spinning. My insides are screaming 'no way.'

I patiently explain to the nurse that I can't possibly drop everything and have a biopsy tomorrow. Besides, I am still getting over the flu and a cold, and *all* my glands are swollen. They don't stand a chance of getting a good sample. I was told that I had to see the ENT doctor to even determine if it was possible to get a biopsy. I'm pretty sure the ENT will schedule that procedure. The nurse is reluctant to let me off the hook. After all, its on the schedule. I am adamant. It may be on their schedule, but it sure wasn't on mine! You can't expect me to show up for something I don't know about!

She finally acquiesces with a strong admonishment to call my doctor first thing in the morning, just in case she still wants me to have it done. I call the doctor this morning. They are puzzled. They will look into it and call me back. They call me back, and the doctor has given her permission for me to skip the biopsy for today, as long as I keep my appointment with the ENT on Thursday. Permission? Hah! There is no permission involved here.

I explain AGAIN that I was not told about the biopsy. No one called me to say that it had been scheduled, or to tell me who was doing it, or to inform me about the bloodwork, pre-op non-eating - nothing. They don't get it. They repeat that I have permission to skip today's biopsy. Idiots.

I am beginning to think I missed something. True, I changed my appointment with the ENT because I wasn't feeling well. And when I last left the oncologist, I knew she was scheduling an appointment with some radiology department somewhere to see if there was anything they felt they could do - I assumed to address whether or not they thought radiation would be appropriate at this juncture. But the receptionist told me they would let me know when they were able to schedule that - and I'm pretty sure it wasn't to do a biopsy! The only thing she scheduled before I left was the ENT appointment.

Maybe I am losing my mind. Maybe I totally misunderstood. I'd like to think I am a reasonably intelligent person who grasps basic concepts and can follow a train of thought. Well, there's no help for it now. I "have permission" to sit this one out. I am thinking its the hand of the good Lord keeping me safe. Now I just have to figure out where the darn ENT is located. God help me if I mess that one up!

Say a Little Prayer for Dad

Today my father is having a kidneystone crushed. It has been bothering him since before Thanksgiving. He hasn't been able to pass it since its so large. The doctors were hoping it would move a bit further down, and they already put in stents.

So today is the big day. They figured it would take about four hours including recovery. There is a small tumor on one of his kidneys that they doctors have been watching. Its not very big and not growing fast, so they plan on leaving it alone. If it is cancer, the only fix would be to remove it, something they wouldn't do on a man my father's age.

I've been thinking of him and praying for him all day. If you get a chance this evening, would you say a prayer for my Dad? Thanks. I appreciate that! Lord knows he has done enough praying for me (-:

Brrrrr!

Talk about winter with a vengeance! We have single digit temps today, and boy do I feel that in this apartment sieve. Even with the thermostat cranked up to 90, its barely 60 in here. Despite all my good efforts to caulk, cover, and coat, the wind just comes in at will. The plastic on the windows bellies out with frozen air, the floor is frigid, the stripping in the doorframe totally ineffective.

That's what I get for living in such a decrepit place. I jump into bed, pull all four blankets and quilts up to my nose, and shiver. I definitely have to move to a better place as soon as the lease is up. No good calling the manager. They still haven't addressed even a third of the broken things on my move in list. I'm sure they think its a big joke. But I am for sure telling the college to take them off the suggested rental list.

It gives me pause though. I know there are many people living in just such substandard housing whose landlords don't give a hoot either. And I doubt that they have the option of moving. Not to mention people living on the street. How on earth do they survive? And what of those who have been hit by some disaster and have yet to recover enough to get into decent housing?

Well, I can't help much from this vantage point. I guess for now, I'll just concentrate on staying warm. At least the furnace is working!

Grapefruit!!!

My sister sent us some citrus fruit she purchased to support a coworker's kids' fundraiser. I thought for sure Kiel would gobble down the navel oranges and grapefruits while he was home. He did have some, but when he left there were still four or five grapefruit and a half dozen oranges left. Drew wasn't interested, and I was reticent to try them, fearing a system clog from the fiber - or the other result of running to the bathroom. Ah, me.

But I went to my friend's house the other weekend for the first stab at putting together PrayerSong, and she was so amazingly sweet to make a delicious lunch for us. Part of what she served was a few pieces from a fresh cut orange. "Be bold," I told myself. "Its just a few pieces. Try it and see what happens. You have the weekend to recover."

So I tried it, and it was OK. No big reaction. Maybe my system is getting stronger! Well, that encouraged me to cut up a grapefruit since I was home anyways fighting off the flu. I didn't intend to eat the whole darn thing. I meant to just have half. But it tasted so good - it was juicy and sweet and perfect. I couldn't believe how hungry I suddenly was. It was like some scene from a movie where a starving person gets to eat for the first time in days. I tore the flesh from the rind with my bare fingers, the juice running down onto the plate in my lap. Oooohhhh! It was *so* juicy, so delicious.

I ate the whole thing before I realized what I was doing. Then I was worried that I had messed up. Believe it or not, I could feel some energy returning. It was like revving up an engine. I wisely let my body use the extra supply to work on getting over the sinus stuff. It was pretty cool. And so far, no nasty after effects. I guess time will tell.

Still Home

I am surprised that I am getting through this cold/flu without using any medicine. Equally surprised to be well enough to get sick if you know what I mean. My body isn't so entangled with warding off some monster disease and it can deal with the cold. I didn't get any colds while I was undergoing cancer treatment.

I am really trying to boost my immune system. My friend gave me a book about alternative cancer care, and they make a lot of good points about revving up the immune system to prepare it to deal with cancer. After all, the good Lord did create the human body to repair itself. Of course, we tend to get in the way with our polluted environment and processed foods and toxic junk.

Anyway, I have gradually been adding in more fresh fruits and cooked veggies. Maybe its making a difference! I have researched a couple of natural supplements to take, and once I am over this, I will try some. I gotta say I just don't want to try radiation or chemo again. I have NOT made up my mind about how to respond to the recent PET scan. I am waiting to hear something more concrete.

Kiel thinks I should go to Mass General for a second opinion. I may just do that. I don't know yet. Maybe by procrastinating, I won't have to do anything! (how naive!) Meanwhile, my flu has calmed down some, but the tiredness is hefty and the sinuses are still clogged, and yesterday felt so good I decided to repeat the stay home part. Which I am doing. Mazel tov.

Staying Home

Sinus headache. Sore throat. Runny nose. Tired. Achy. Yup - the flu. Don't get excited. You still have to drive carpool. Remember what they said? It doesn't matter how bad you feel, if its your turn to drive, you drive. No last minute subs unless you have a family member willing and able to drive for you (no luck there).

After carpool I had a serendipitous morning appointment with my primary doctor to follow up about my blood pressure (better but still not low enough). "Go home. Go to bed. I have seen a lot of this stuff, and you are doing yourself and no one else a favor by going to work."

Hum. Normally, I have to be unable to move to take a sick day. But her advice sounded so appealing that I took it! Besides, there was nothing on my calendar that was pressing. No deadlines looming, no classes to teach, no meetings. So I called in and went home.

I did nothing all day but sit in the comfy chair and watch TV (and doze). I pushed fluids and vitamin C and didn't bother to cook anything, just warmed up chicken soup. It felt wonderful to have a free day. I didn't even think about work. How nice. To sleep, perchance to get better. And I don't feel a bit guilty about it either!

Triple Header

This is getting to be ridiculous. Today I had a chiropractor appointment at 8:30 for the pinched nerve in my back/shoulder, then a dentist appointment at 10 for a small filling. Then I had a phone conversation about the biopsy stuff. I mean, really. I haven't the time to be trotting from one doctor to another. I have things to do, faxes to send, websites to design, paperwork to complete, a book to put together, music to select - not to mention my library job! This list of real things is too precious to sacrifice to time-consuming medical appointments. Not to mention the finance-consuming copays (which btw went up in January in addition to the deductible rolling around again).



At least in Rochester they are pretty on time. If your appointment is for ten, you can pretty much count on being called in at ten or pretty close to it. I just have to figure out a way to get well enough to function with minimal medical interruptions. At this point it promises to get worse before it gets better. I feel like I'm dangling on a string. I can't put life on hold while they figure things out. So - no more triple headers please! Give a girl a break.

Scared of Dying?

Saturday I played for a funeral service for a man I never met. He was the ex-husband of one of my choir members, and he died at the young age of 60 of cancer. Died of cancer. Its a hard sentence, one that I hear often these days. Pastor made a very interesting remark during the service. She said that as we must leave the womb to be born, so we must exit life to continue our journey with God. Afterwards, I was chatting with another elderly choir member who wondered out loud just why we are so afraid of dying. She thought it should be something we look forward to, a celebration, an entering into a better place where there is no pain, no sorrow, no unhappiness.

I wonder, when the time comes, will I be afraid? I hope I will not be. I have sat with several people when they passed from this life to the next - not a common thing for this day and age. One was my Grandmother. I don't believe she was afraid when the moment came. Oh, she had a few moments of angst when the thought was heavy on her mind before death was all that imminent. It was as if she forgot all the years she had known Christ and she was panicking. But she remembered her Scripture verses, experiences she had during her life when God was so real to her and soon she was calm about it.


Another person was my son Michael. I was with him when he died. I held him in my arms. He was ten. Ten. He didn't choose to be sick. But he was. On the night he passed, I woke in the middle of the night and I knew something was wrong. I went to him, and held him, not realizing how bad it was, just knowing he was restless and needed me. He asked permission to go home. I thought he meant back to New York since we were living in Oklahoma at the time. He told me the man up there wanted him to go with him, and he pointed to the ceiling. In fact, he told me there were several men there. One was Jesus, the others were angels. And they were there to escort him home.

Home. I'm pretty sure he didn't make it up. And he was not afraid. He was excited to go and worried about leaving me. He didn't want me to be sad. But he was going. He tried to tell me what he was seeing. It must have been wonderful. He tried to talk more, but he couldn't make the words work right. His face was full of joy. And he was gone, just like that. Of course, we went crazy doing CPR and calling 911 and all the things you do when death invades your space. You don't forget a thing like that.

People who work with the dying will tell you Michael's experience is not unusual. There are numerous books written about near death experiences, and just as many "experts" who will tell you it is the result of chemical imbalances in the brain and all sorts of things. People have struggled with death for centuries, and talk about it in all sorts of ways. I like the "crossing over Jordan" image. I choose to believe that there is a God, and there is a heaven where I will go when I die. Not because I deserve it, nor because I am special in some way, but because God so loved the world and provided a way through the death of His son so that anyone who chooses can spend eternity with Him.

When the angels come to take me home, I hope I will not be afraid. How God must laugh at our reluctance to step into the light and be free from pain and sorrow and misery. Fear? That's anxiety about the unknown, because what we don't know may cause us pain. But I know Whom I have believed, and am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I've committed (my eternal soul) unto Him against that day.

When I am afraid, I will trust in Him. I have no idea what the next few weeks will bring. Whatever it is, I will not face it alone. So until the time comes, I will not waste time stewing over something I cannot control. When your time comes, it comes. And that's a curtain call no one can refuse.

White Fireworks

So there I was, standing on the 12th floor of the HSBC building in downtown Rochester, waiting to see an accountant to set up the books for Jairus House. It was one of those elegant office suites that bristled with business and dripped with money. The decor included showcases for antique pottery complete with backlighting, rich cherry woodwork walls, thick oriental carpeting of the wall to wall variety, appropriate journals on the table, half hidden by the day's Wall Street Journal hot off the press.

The receptionist spoke in quiet dulcet tones as she responded to incoming calls and pages from the cubicled room beyond the massive one-knob-in-the-middle doors. My coat was taken and cared for, I was offered coffee or tea or bottled water and polite conversation while I waited. At one point, the receptionist became enmeshed in a confusion about a set of corporate tax forms having been delivered to the wrong person, and I took the opportunity to stand and gaze out the floor to ceiling windows.

I realized this was the building that displayed a building-sized lighted Christmas tree at evening by coloring various windows in the shape of a tree, an interesting puzzle in logistics. This office suite had red lights along each pane. Then I lifted my eyes from the interior to the view - WOW! You could see clear to the river past the new bridge beyond the expressway.

I could see almost the entire city up close and personal. It was impressive from this vantage point. People and cars below were miniatures in constant motion. Taxis, buses, trucks, vans - all in a hurry to get someplace. Instead of seeing the skyline I am used to - mostly the tallest buildings, I saw blocks of buildings all different heights and textures, different landscaping, some dirty and run down, others in good shape, a few new. You could look into the windows of the nearby businesses and see shadows of people wandering about from window to window. It was definitely a city at work.

The receptionist finished untangling the problem, and I turned to her and remarked about the fabulous view. Her head came up in surprise, and she said, "Oh, yes. I guess it is. I forget its there." Then she went back to her gentle and constant patter of chatter. I glanced back at the window. Suddenly, white sparks shot up from just beyond the little park area. What was that? Fireworks? Its the wrong season of the year for fireworks. And they are all white and spiraling straight up. Not fireworks. Birds! Seagulls to be more exact. Twenty-odd white seagulls, startled from their morning forage of garbage, all fluttering skyward from the same location, just like a spray of fireworks.

I watched them ascend higher and higher together in a mighty surge, then peel away from each other like Blue Angels in an air show. It was spectacular. The receptionist missed the whole thing. She was oblivious. I felt sorry for her. I guess in order to concentrate on her job, she had to focus on the backlit gray courtesy panel that lined her desk area. Too bad. To face a window on the world and not see anything. To have white fireworks going off right in front of you, and see only your desk.

Jarringly Out of Place

There it was, lying at the end of a driveway on Westside Drive, right before the railroad tracks. A big fuzzy pink stuffed animal with jagged teeth and horns lying in a puddle of water. No one seemed concerned that it was there. Not the little girl waiting for the school bus which was right behind my car, not the man who scooted into the driveway in a brown van right in front of my car, not the woman standing in the doorway, watching the bus approach.

They all stepped around it as if it was part of the landscape. I wondered if it had fallen out of a trash bin or been dropped during playtime. It bothered me. Why had the poor thing been abandoned? And why was it so pink??!! And what sort of crazy animal was it anyways? Nothing normal like a cat or horse. Some kind of happy fantasy monster. It didn't look torn or disheveled, though goodness knows if it gets left there for long it won't stay so unspoiled.

I drove past the little house several days in a row, and the critter was always there, unmoved, just lying in a puddle, alone, abandoned. Perhaps I would not have noticed so much if it had been a potted plant or a bicycle or a baseball mitt. Something that you would expect to see on the lawn of a kid's house. Then you might conclude that they were still playing with it and it would make sense to be lying there for a few days.

But a stuffed animal, especially such a large-sized one as this, well, it should be inside where you can sit on it to watch TV or be put on your bed for company or some such thing. It was so out of place. And getting so wet! I felt a bit sorry for it, poor thing. I think I will drive by there tomorrow just to see if anyone has picked it up yet. How silly to be bothered by such a little thing.

Pajama Party

Flabbergasted doesn't even come close to describing my reaction to Kiel's last night home before heading back to college. He was no where near ready to depart - clothes were flung everywhere, stacks to sort through lined the living room floor, he wanted to make a grocery run, spend some Christmas cash, see a few friends, go to the bank - the list seemed endless. I was tired just listening to his ambitious plans!



What amused me most was his interest in helping one of Drew's friends dye his hair. Apparently they had been working on getting his Mom's permission for some time, and they were down to the wire in getting it done. Permission had been granted, money had been earned, and it was a go. Zach wanted to be a blond (am I sure I am hearing this right? from a guy?). But wait. This involved not just Zach, but a whole group of kids interested in watching, seeing for themselves how to do it, learning from the pro - the kid with the blue, uh, red, uh green hair.



Yup. It was a regular pajama party. Kids hanging around, deep in conversation about what color to purchase, how hard it was to lighten dark hair, what was the best technique, how long it would take, how many times he would have to do it, what shampoo to use afterwards. From guys! I had a tremendous flashback to junior high and girls hanging out painting toenails and teasing hair. Yikes! All that was missing was the pajama gear.



I sat quietly in the living room watching the drama unfold. The conversation buzzed louder and louder as excitement grew. First the trip to the store to get the dye. Then animated conferences about the particulars. Suddenly, off came the glasses, the whole crew descended on the tiny bathroom, head under the tub faucet, on went the dye, timing began. Everyone retired to Drew's room to play video games until the timer buzzed.



I finally gave up and went to bed. I don't know what time the friends left, but Kiel took Zach home for the final steps in the process. He must have returned around midnight to start his packing. Trains do run late, but he would still have to get up in a few short hours to catch the ten o'clock run to Albany.



I wonder if it was worth it? Zach's hair didn't look too different after all the hoopla. Just slightly lighter. They spent a lot of time and energy on it. They plan to do it again soon. At least they didn't giggle at guys through the bedroom window or have a pillow fight!

That Nasty Little "B" Word

I was generally OK about going to the oncologist for the results of the PET scan. After all, I have been down this road dozens of times before. I am used to hearing "well, there's something wrong, we don't know quite what. Let's do the test again and see if anything changes."

But I knew immediately that things were different. They sent a student in first to "chat" - they only come in when there is something going on, some treatment or news. I was prepared to hear what the doctor had to say.

She suspects that I have follicular lymphoma. Not rectal cancer metastasized. A new cancer. It resides in the lymph glands. Yes, the last biopsy was clear, but we did just get a few cells, not an entire gland. Given the PET scan results and the history. . .

The plan? I see an Ear-Nose-Throat specialist next week. They will try to remove an entire gland from my neck (gulp). Nasty little Biopsy - yuck. I will see radiology, who may find they can begin some treatment. The doctor will re-consult the doctor who did my last colonoscopy since there is now something showing up in the rectum area. She will also present my case at Strong rounds, and at a conference for the eastern seaboard, to see if she can glean any insight from others.

I will need PET scans every 2 months. Not to worry, this sort of cancer doesn't shorten your life - by much. People have been known to live a good thirty years with it. And then the word 'incurable' and 'managed' and a blur of other stuff.

Deep breath. OK. We have a suspicion that we are going to try and prove. Let's see what happens. Meanwhile, I feel OK. Not great, but OK except for the pain in my shoulder and arm. So nothing has changed, really. Just some words to explore. Now if I can just get past the idea of slicing something out of my throat, I'll be fine.

Mahler Month

I discovered that I happen to own recordings of all of Mahler's symphonies! Some I had purchased for classes, others were on a CD I bought for some other piece I wanted. Since I have them all, and even multiple recordings for some of the symphonies (was 4 that popular?), I decided to make January "listen to Mahler's music" month.

I find his music deceptively controlling and twisted. He always starts out with something simple, vaguely reminiscent of music you have heard before somewhere, perhaps in your childhood. You find yourself enchanted and flowing along with things until you suddenly realize he has taken you somewhere you didn't want to go. Someplace macabre, uninviting, dark.

At about the moment you realize you are not comfortable, he slips back to the sunny side of things, and you think you must have dreamed up the odd path. You bob along for awhile, settling back in, and then find yourself uncomfortable again, hearing not what you thought was coming, but edgy music, velvet with a steel spine, patriotism with blood, dessert with a bitter twang.

Yes, I know he was dealt some raw deals in life. His music is full of the slightly sour, slightly bitter, slightly off taste. Not overwhelmingly so. There are such beautiful, poignant, soaring moments, such fullness and grandeur. Yet inside, that kick. I am not sure how long I can continue inundating myself with his sounds, but it is interesting to intake so much of a single composer at once. I am used to Chopin, Tchaikovsky, Brahms, or Rachmaninov in larger doses. But even then I have not listened to hours of their repertoire uninterrupted by other gentler musics.

Well, we shall see.

A Fit of Nature

I awoke at my usual pre 6:00 am time to find my clock blinking. Must be the power went out sometime in the night. I reset the clock and went about the usual business of starting the day. It wasn't until I put Drew on the carpool van and headed towards work that I realized something wasn't right. The traffic light was out at the corner of Union and Buffalo Road. (Interesting that the lines of traffic were shorter than with the light working!). I wondered if power were out on campus.

Sure enough, the road to the library parking lot was blocked off, so I went around the other way, barely managing to get into the lot from Westside Drive. There was a huge tree limb lying astride sagging power lines, and wires dancing everywhere. It must have snapped off in the gale force wind that was whipping my car so strongly I was afraid I might tip over.

Did you know that card swipes don't work if the power is out? Me neither. I called security to let me in the library, then called the emergency line. 2 hour delay for the campus to open. Well, that gave me plenty of time to watch them work on correcting the problem while reshelving books.

Lots of trucks came and went. At one point, they disconnected more wires, then they sawed the limb into pieces (I say limb, but it was as big around as a small elephant and could have passed for a whole ancient tree all on its own). Then more connecting of wires. It the limb had fallen the other direction, it would have wiped out an entire house.

Meanwhile, reports began to filter in from other parts of the area. A number of schools were closed due to power outages. Several people told me they didn't have power even at the end of the day. Classes normally held in buildings at the other end of campus ended up in the library because not only did they have no power in their building, but there was no heat either. Traffic lights all over the place were out, causing jams and snarls in navigation.

Wow - no snow, no ice, no rain, no tornado. Just lots of downed trees, loss of power, travel issues. Talk about a grumpy Mother Nature! Sure hope she's in a better frame of mind soon.

A Fit of Giggling

PET scans are not funny. There is nothing about them that should make you laugh. After all, you spend twenty minutes just listening to the cautions about the test.

Did you have any caffeine/carbohydrates/tobacco? (Does that mean if I had any of those things, I could implode in the machine?)
When was the last time you ate or drank anything? (If I slip up and yield to temptation, will I croak in the huge tube?)
Did you exercise in the last 12 hours? (Do you seriously think I would give up sleeping to take a 12K run?)
List all your previous surgeries. (Do you have a 20 page notebook?)
Drink this stuff (barium). After 2 cups, we will let you rest a bit before we give you another round. (yeah, right. If I don't barf first).
After the test, you will be RADIOACTIVE for at least four hours.
Flush the toilet twice after use, and make sure you wash your hands well. (Will they wither up and fall off if I don't?)
Don't touch any animals, babies or elderly people. (Should I seek out people I am not too fond of and hug them closely?)
Stay at least an arm's length from everyone for the next four hours at least. (When have you ever known me to get physically close to anyone?)
Hold still while we inject you with a radioactive isotope. And just to make sure we didn't miss anything, we will flush the container with IV solution and inject that in you too.

Yikes! Where is there anything funny in all that?

And yet, as I was heading down the throat of the huge cylinder, I found myself fighting off a huge fit of giggles.

Breath in. Blow the air out. Hold your breath!

How do you do that when you are about to explode on the inside with inappropriate laughter? You know, the kind that always hits you when you are in places that require silence - like a formal worship service in a cathedral, or at a funeral. I once got a hysterical fit of laughter in a Sunday morning church service. Something that I normally would not have thought twice about suddenly struck me as ridiculous, and I started to laugh.

At first you can kind of contain it. You stomach shakes and your ribs are heaving and your shoulders pump up and down, but you manage to prevent the sound from coming out of your mouth. If you think serious thoughts and dummy up, sometimes you can make it stop. But this particular Sunday, I couldn't get it to go away. It finally snuck up into my throat where it turned into a sort of grunting, snorting sound while tears streamed down my now red cheeks. Finally I had no choice but to open my mouth and let it out or I would have choked. Then of course, the sound is much louder than if I had just let it out in the first place. Mother reached over and applied the well known pinch remedy, which helps. But even so, it takes awhile for the excitement to subside.

Well, there I was sliding into the craw of that stupid machine, and all I could think of was a show I had seen on TV of a snake swallowing a rat whole. The process was an initial grab, then a pause, then a swallow which resulted in the rat coming back out of the snake mouth a few inches, then sliding further in. Each swallow saw that same process of out a bit, then in deeper.

And that was exactly what I was doing. The technician had positioned me on the table, then disappeared into the control room. Suddenly I jumped halfway into the tube and stopped. A few minutes later, the table exited the tube a few inches, then moved forward deeper into the tube than I had been before. My head was still out and I could easily see the yawning mouth for a time as I was jockeyed back and forth in and out of the machine. At first I was counting things (my usual defense when I haven't been able to focus on a Bible verse or song) - the speaker had concentric circles in multiples of eight dots. 1, 8, 16, 32, 64. The ceiling panels had splotches that formed letters if you looked closely and used a bit of imagination - R, T, W, S.

That's when the image of that darn snake/rat hit me. I sure sympathized with the rat about the long drawnout process. Its agonizing being swallowed an inch at a time! And then the ludicrousness of it hit me. I started to giggle. "Stop that," I told myself. "This is a serious business. You have to hold still or you will mess up the results." For a minute, I was dead serious. Then the silliness of the parallel hit me again and the giggle gurled up in my throat. OY!

Fortunately, the technician's voice came over the speaker just then. "We are almost done with this part of the test, and then we will take you out of the machine for a minute to reposition you for the next part. Just another minute or two. Hang in there. You're doing good."

Caught in mid laugh! After that I behaved. Not sure what she thought I was doing, but I didn't bother to tell her. At least we didn't have to start all over. As I exited the building, I wondered how many people in the waiting room were there for the same procedure. If all twenty of them left there radioactive, and if more people came for that same test during the day, and if there are a dozen or so clinics all doing this test on people, and if everyone who is radioactive goes out and hugs three friends and contaminates them, can we set the city of Rochester on fire? Food for thought. (Are you laughing yet?)!

Summer!!!!!

Can you believe it? The temperature reached 60 degrees today - a record high! People were wandering about in tee shirts and shorts. The day was balmy, the skies blue. Thoughts of 3 below and Christmas snow seemed like a fading dream. I've heard of January thaws, but this is amazing! I was so happy that I had several meetings in other locations that forced me to be outside for traveling purposes. Aw.

January thaw usually happens towards the end of the month, and provides relief from weeks of frigid arctic weather. OK, we have had a day or two of single digit weather, but not enough to be tired of it and longing for a break. It even makes me wonder about maple sugaring possibilities. Usually, when the winter temperatures rise above 32 degrees, the sap begins to flow in the maple trees, and that's when you want to hammer in a tap and hang your bucket.

Its one of those mysteries I have never understood. You would think that the sap would explode from the tree when it freezes because water expands when it freezes. And when it thaws, it should take up less room and sink to the bottom of the roots, not flow freely from the spigot as if caringly donating its life blood to save a sweet tooth. But what do I know? Sap only flows when the pressure inside the tree is greater than the atmospheric pressure, so they say.

Anyway, I can't think what will happen with the temperatures in the sixties. The poor maple trees will be confused and maybe they will start to bud instead of weeping sap. People sure are jumping into summer mode in the blink of an eye. I'm enjoying it completely. Way better than fighting your way through a blizzard! Here's hoping it lasts awhile.

Grrrrr

Boys! There are days when you just want to strangle them! My house is overrun with stuff. Despite my asking nicely and not so nicely, chores have not been done. Piles of dirty dishes, empty food wrappers and smelly laundry lay about the tiny living room. I have been invaded.

Preaching does not work. Grounding does not work. Refusing to allow privileges has no effect. How do you get through to these kids! I want my life back, and soon. What was it that preacher was saying about the importance of family? Maybe he should come to my house and trouble shoot. We are obviously dysfunctional. At least by my standards.

Ah, but there is that indefinable something going on between Drew and Kiel, that brother bonding, growing up to maturity camaraderie that is so necessary. Surely I can tolerate a bit of mess for awhile. After all, Drew will not be 13 for long. He is already fussing to drive the car, God have mercy. And he does go back to school tomorrow. The driving necessity of routine will help straighten things out.

He has indoor soccer, robotics club, and a touch of music to occupy his time. Kiel will only be here until Thursday. My too too small apartment will just have to burst at the seams until then. God grant me grace to keep my mouth shut, pick up the junk, bite my tongue, and hang on until then.

Loneliness

This evening I attended a service at Father's House, a local non-denominational church that Kiel has discovered and enjoys attending when he is home. Its quite a switch for anyone used to traditional denominational services, but having spent a great deal of time floating between denominational and non-denominational churches, it felt perfectly valid to me despite the special effects of spotlights, TV cameras, smoke machines, loud music, and lots of visual graphics splashed about on monitors and screens.

Nonetheless, it was good to be encouraged with the upbeat music, the words of Scripture, the engaging activities. The preacher was dynamic, charismatic, appealing, interesting. I appreciated his fervor and passion. He was talking about belonging to a family, both a physical family and a spiritual family. One thing he said stuck with me. "Americans," he quoted, "are the loneliness people on the planet."

Hum. That gives one pause for thought. He went on to say that although we have lots of stuff, we do not major in relationships and often just check out when the going gets inconvenient, leaving us alone - familyless - and therefore lonely.

Well, I don't know that there is any way to substantiate his quote. But I do know that when you have a long term illness, the chance that you will find yourself alone in your fight increases. I encourage you to reach out to those near you who have had a tough go of it last year and who are still dealing with health issues. I call it the "Create Your Own Family" initiative.

Do something nice for them. Take them to a concert, bring them a meal, offer to do their laundry. Not only will it help them and let them know they are not in it alone, but it will do your heart a world of good. Believe me, there are lots of people out there trying to act like they have it together and can manage on their own who would be relieved to find out there is someone who cares.

Its the best cure for loneliness that I know. Find a lonely person and spend some time with them!

Scrunching

Snow squeaks when the temperatures are low. You hear it complaining when a car drives by, tires packing furrows of snow together with a grating, scrunching sound. You hear it when your boots wade through piles of the frozen stuff, complaining about the coldness with a squick, squick, squick. When snow is cold enough to complain, you had better take note.

Snow loses its packiness, refusing to touch other flakes long enough to make snowballs. Such cold snow eagerly jumps off car hoods and roofs in its anxiousness to warm up. Frigid snow turns blue and huddles persistently on sidewalks where it is not wanted. It will not cooperate with snowblowers or plows, resisting like a stubborn child who has not been properly fed dinner.

Only young boys are bold enough to dally with frozen snow. They hang around outside bundled in snowsuits and scarves, teasing the snow into games of toboggan and flying saucer, throwing themselves wholeheartedly into the creation of snow angels and playing track the kitty cats.

I do not mess with frigid snow. I scrunch it as little as possible with my boots, and run indoors to hide until the cold spell reprieve. I know better than to mess with madness!

Minus 3 Degrees

I thought it felt cold when I started the car yesterday. Usually I check the weather before I go out, but Kiel is sleeping in the living room, and I didn't want to disturb him. I had actually thought about walking to work, trying to get back in the swing of a healthy lifestyle, but as soon as I poked my nose out the door, I abandoned that idea.

Baby, my wonderful little Malibu, complained when I turned the key, but she started after the first little whine. I had the dubious reward of opening the Library after our season of vacation. I parked as close to the back door as possible and took out my ID card for the door swipe before I shut off the engine. Even with my scarf wound around my face, I thought my ears would fall off before I got to the loading dock.

It tricky figuring out how to breath properly when the air is so cold. If you inhale through your nose, the little hairs in there all shout in protest, then stick to the lining of your nasal passage and refuse to do their job. One must inhale through the mouth carefully covered by a wool scarf so as to warm the oxygen to some tolerable level, then exhale through the nose to unstick the dustcatchers. Its an art form.

It wasn't until I got to choir practice that someone told me it had been minus 3 degrees this morning. There should be a law against that kind of cold! Its coming back to me more and more about the downside of living in the northeast. Ah, well. Our library's geothermal heating system was working well and we were snug and comfortable all day. Besides, I can always turn on one of the two gas fireplaces just to reassure myself that there are many ways to make the cold tolerable. Not to worry. There should be a January thaw coming sometime this month. Hang in there!

Aunt Esther

The person for whom I am named. My Mother's brother's wife. A hard working woman who bore one set of twins, managed an elegant ranch style home, ran the office for her husband's business, and still managed to entertain her niece from time to time.

I was afraid of Aunt Esther when I was growing up. She didn't mince words. If she thought you needed to be told something, she told you, without the window dressing of concern for your feelings.

Once when I was staying at Gram Appleby's, I got to spend the afternoon at Aunt Esther's, muddling around with my cousins, Art and Charley. Gram called at noon to make sure I got lunch. Aunt Esther often worked straight through lunch. I ended up going to the Altamont Fair with them that night, and Esther sewed up a pair of dress slacks so I would have something decent to wear.

I didn't often get a chance to go to a fair. What fun we had looking at the chickens, the sheep, the horses, the cows. We wandered through the produce tent gawking at all the amazing vegetables, fruits, preserves, pickles, and pies. We saw the displays hawking tractors and farm implements. She even bought me a cone of cotton candy! It was such a marvelous evening. I hadn't thought my aunt interested in hauling me around at a fair, much less seeing to it that I didn't step in anything objectionable, if you know what I mean.

In later years, I came to know her as my supervisor when I helped out one summer in their office. She was particular and careful with details, not given to either stinginess nor excessive generosity. Her back yard was a fabulous sanctuary of flowering grace and wildlife encouraged by her provision of appropriate food sources. She even shared her knitting skills with me, showing me how to knit my first pair of mittens.

Today, after years of suffering with Alzheimer's disease, Aunt Esther passed away. Her husband struggled to provide the care she needed despite her lack of cooperation. She had withered away and become less and less able to function, confined to bed, uninterested in eating. Grief tempered with relief. Yet she leaves a hole in the fabric of our family. She is the first of the parent sets to lose her battle with age, to travel beyond the Jordan, to meet her maker. There is no replacing Esther's stalwart strength and solid dependability.

I will miss her bold remarks, her voiced opinions, her assurance that she knew the way to do something or another. I will miss her enjoyment of nature, her encouragement of intersection between wilderness and domesticity. I will miss her tiny careful stitching of knitted things, her unquestioning support of her husband's life endeavors, her crooked smile, the timbre of her voice. And I will carry with me always the impact she had on my life, the changes in perception I learned from her, the influences gleaned from her style, her gifts, her person. I thank her for being her, and I pray she has found the peace that passes all understanding.

Not with a Bang, but a Snooze

All my good intentions for starting the new year out on a good foot disappeared somewhere into the energy crisis. Days of travel, grand daughters, sons, siblings, gifts, driving, doing, walking, shopping had taken their toll. My careful plans of exercising and eating well were abandoned.

The best I could manage was a short walk to the nearby video store to return last night's movie. At least that small concession. No, started the brand shiny new year by sleeping in. I awoke at the usual time, but rolled over and went back to sleep. Yikes! I didn't even bother to dress until after noon. We watched an all day Monk marathon and nibbled at junk food and just lolled around.

Oooo - it felt so good! I could feel the tiredness stop creeping over me in the way that waves wash over you long after the motor boat has passed, then slowly subside until stasis is reached. I began unpacking, examine anew the gifts I had received. What a marvelous Christmas it has been! Not so much for the gifts (all of which I appreciate and like) but for the thoughts of the givers of the gifts. What a blessing it is to see everyone - my parents, my sister, my brothers, my sons, my daughter-in-law, my grand daughters.

What does it matter that my house is a total mess, piles of stuff everywhere? What does it matter that I have not accomplished a disciplined and productive start to a new year? What does it matter that I return to work tomorrow and all my clothes need to be washed? OK, that needs to be addressed.

Perhaps it is the necessary theme for this new year. Start not with a big push, but with a sense of gratitude and thankfulness, a resting and a reviving. Yes, that will do. That will do just fine.