Nap Time

Sunday is a day of rest, so I have been taught. As a minister of music, it is not always so. There is much to pay attention to and to facilitate during service and afterwards, and I do enjoy doing all of that. But at the end of the worship service and chime choir rehearsals, I must admit that I am worn out. I drive home, fix a sandwich, eat, and then have little gumption to do anything else for the rest of the day.

When I was growing up, we were remanded to our rooms where we had to be quiet. Sometimes we risked parental wrath by gathering in someone's room and playing board games, but mostly we just lay on our beds and read. I worked my way through much of the Johnstown Public Library holdings in that manner, enjoying the escapades of Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys, the Sugar Creek Gang, Little House on the Prairie, Elsie Dinsmore, the Black Stallion, the Bobbsey Twins and a host of other characters to entice the young mind.

Today, I think perhaps I will do a bit of light reading, and I head to my room, curl up under the cozy quilts, and take volume 7 of the Ann of Green Gables series I have been slowly working my way through for the third time. I enjoy the descriptions and capers, realizing how limited my vocabulary and thinking processes have become of late. Even such fluffy fare expands my horizons.

I read a page or two, then find my eyelids too heavy to continue. I will shut them for a minute and rest. Yes, a bit of stillness will feel good. My mind slows and I become aware of the ticking of the clock in the living room, of my own steady breathing, of the absence of noise from the other occupants of the house. They too are resting, worn out from constant activity and life in general.

We rest for an hour, two, three. We are beginning to recuperate. The exhaustion is beginning to lift. Our bodies are starting to function more efficiently and productively. Rest is good. Rest is helpful. Rest prepares us to begin again fresh on Monday. For the rest of the day, we are not energetic nor do we accomplish anything specific other than allowing our bodies to recover. This is necessary and important. We dare not skip so integral an activity. I am glad we are doing it together.

Taxes

Ugh. I hate to do taxes. Figures do not come naturally for me, nor do I enjoy hunting down forms. It hurts my brain to consider whether this rule applies or that rule. Can I deduct x or should I take y? Phoo. But there is no avoiding this task, so I set aside the day to dig in and focus.

Thank goodness for Turbo Tax that asks you the questions. Once I have answered them to the best of my ability, then all I need do is answer the next screen and the next and the next. It takes hours to sort through all the expediencies and I don't even itemize. Not worth it for me. But after persevering, I come at long last to the final screen. Once I push the Finish button, it will all be over.

I hesitate momentarily. It seems so final, so legally implicating. I would never intentionally misrepresent my situation, but in this area I am out of my league and I realize I could in fact do something wrong. Even though I have been filling out these forms for years, it remains a jungle of confusion and complexity to me. Ah, well. I have done the best I know how using the best tools available.

I can do no more than trust that all will be well. Click!

Snow Day

True to the forecast, the "snowicane" hit last night, even though most of it came while I was sleeping. We had a good ten inches this morning, and Drew was ever so happy to get the text message that school was cancelled.

More snow is falling and my sweet car Baby is a huge mound of white. Not even her antennae is peeking through. I take Sugar for her morning walk, and she disappears in the snow, completely buried by the heavy wet whiteness. In contrast her white fur looks cream colored, and she whines pitifully, desperate to find a place to take care of business, but coming up with no clear spot.

Roberts does not cancel. Its a residential campus, and the students will traipse across campus, plowing their way through any unshoveled spots to escape their dorms and connect at least with the dining hall. I hang on to Sugar's leash while I unbury Baby. Sugar whines. She is cold and wants to go back in. I cannot convince her to take care of her usual duties. Bummer for her.

The roads are not bad, a bit slick. I drive slowly, in no particular hurry since I don't have to be on reference desk until 9am. The world is pristine. Every tree and bush is outlined in white. The tired brown earth is blanketed. Winter has fully arrived.

I park and set up at the reference desk. My colleague comes whistling by and wishes me a Merry Christmas! Indeed. Joy to the World, I reply. Winter has come.

Cancelling Early

The forecast is for a "snowicane" today. On rising, it was indeed lightly snowing, but nothing unmanageable. The worst part is supposed to hit this evening. I scan the reports for cancellations of evening meetings, but so far, nothing is reported. Do I cancel choir rehearsal? Or is this forecast going to result in nothing all that serious?

I decide early on to cancel. Even if it only continues to snow lightly, I do not want to ask my choir members to come out with the threat of bad weather hanging over our heads. What if the roads are fine at 6:30 when we come to rehearsal, but it begins to wallop us during rehearsal and then going home becomes challenging?

No, I cannot ask people to worry. And I know they are all watching the situation today, wondering the same things I am wondering. Life is too short to hang suspended for an entire day. Better to settle the issue now and let people breathe.

Besides, on last Sunday, we actually rehearsed this coming Sunday's piece, just in case, thanks to the suggestion of one of the ladies. I don't know if she had seen the forecast at that point, but it was well planned. This way, everyone is safe regardless of the weather, and the music will still be fine.

I know I will tuck myself safely in at home, snuggling up with a good book and resting. I hope they all do similar.

Drilling for Blood

I brought my homework to read. I know the TPA treatment requires an hour to take effect. I should have brought next week's homework as well! No one had requested that my oncologist order the TPA treatment, so the nurses decided that perhaps they had not sufficiently coaxed my port on Monday. They would try again.

I am ushered to a private room with a reclining chair and adjoining bathroom. The royal treatment! The nurse puts me through all the same paces and then some - lay back, lean forward, raise your arm, lower your arm, cough, turn your head, stand up, bend over. Nothing.

A second nurse comes in. Likely I was not encouraged enough, so she puts me through all the exact same positions and trials as the first nurse put me through plus a ton of flushing. Still nothing. Then a third, tough looking nurse comes in. Surely she will be able to convince me to cough up enough blood. Same positions, same stuff, same result.

Each time I ask the nurse if they will please call my oncologist and request the TPA. Each time they tell me that the TPA will likely not work because my port seems to be positional. Finally, the first nurse comes back and tells me she will call my doctor. Thank goodness. I sit quietly and read. Someone from the pharmacy comes in, talking on her cell phone, mumbles something about my port, and exits. Hum.

After a good hour has flown by, they finally get the TPA. One wrinkle. Its frozen. They have to thaw it out. Three hot packs and a lot of manipulation later, they inject the TPA and leave me to soak. I read. I complete the assigned reading. I close my eyes to rest a bit, but there is much movement in the hallway which I can see through the glass door.

People walking toward the infusion rooms drag their feet, slumping along reluctantly. Family members who are accompanying talk loudly, as if to quell the discomfort through volume. Nurses flutter back and forth carrying medicine and gear. A doctor or two steps quietly past, buried deep in someone's chart. Back, forth. Back, forth. Little snippets of inane conversation leaks into my cell.

"I told her not to go, but she insisted. Look what it got her." (A day of freedom)

"Why didn't they tell us about the potential for bleeding out?" (They don't tell you anything unless you encounter it).

"I refuse to give up. There must be something more we can do for her." (Maybe she doesn't want to do anything else. Maybe she has had enough).

Suddenly I tire of the little games and the dark scenarios. I turn on the TV, something I have not done in months. I read through the menu. There is nothing that appeals, but the need for conversation that is NOT about cancer is strong. I select the show Psyche. I haven't seen that in quite some time.

Generally I don't believe that anyone can, through the sheer genius of their brainpower, overcome great odds and figure out riddles that escape the normal human. If we could do that, cancer would be gone. But I play along, having figured out the scenario long before the solution is offered. At least it is a distraction.

Timing is perfect. Just as the show ends, the nurse returns and I can see that she absolutely does not believe that the TPA will have done the job. She is just going along with the idea to eliminate it as a solution. We both know that the next step is to surgically replace the port.

But I have been down this road before. The symptoms are exactly the same, and TPA worked before. I have every confidence that it will work now. And to her amazement, first draw bring a more than sufficient supply of deep red liquid. She is floored. And glad.

It has made her day that the solution was so simple. She is practically dancing. I tried to tell her. But its OK. I am glad to have made someone's day! I figure I am good for another 6 months or so. Thank the good Lord.

Sleep Insanity

Kiel and I have been going at it for some time now. He maintains that he has trouble keeping his nights and days straight. I insist that if he would just go to bed at the same time every night, whether he is tired or not, and make himself get up in the morning, he will get on track in a fairly short time.

It wasn't working. I refuse to be kept awake by a night owl when I am a morning person! Especially when he starts missing classes due to what appears to me to be just plain stubbornness. I finally "got it" that if he really can't force himself into a reasonable schedule, then there must be something wrong with him.

We started with a trip to the primary care physician who could find nothing wrong with him. Everything checked out as normal. It took me awhile to go to the next step of making him get an appointment with a sleep clinic. I can't imagine that there is anything really off base, but we can at least rule it out if there is nothing there.

Imagine my surprise when they found that he has a mild form of both sleep apnea and narcolepsy. I can't imagine what a serious case would look like. Apparently he moves often in the night, and that prevents him from entering sound sleep. So he wakes up tired and can't function until he has slept in the daytime enough to make up for it.

So my solution would have been to give him medicine to make him sleep soundly. But instead of that, they are giving him medicine to make him stay awake in the day time. Go figure. So far I am not impressed with the results, especially considering that the medicine costs a hefty $854! Thank God for insurance, but it still dented my budget by $70. I am almost hoping this is not the solution because quite frankly we can't afford it.

Well, time will tell. So far it has only made Kiel have headaches and be a bit less grouchy in the morning. I'll keep you posted. What a bummer!

Dry Port

I am still coughing the kind of cough that sounds like you are about to expire. That long, rasping, wheezing, can't get a breath of air hacking that could almost be whooping cough. I debate about going in to the infusion center with this stuff, but the coughing spells occur only sporadically now, and if I play my cards right, I can be cough free during my visit.

I don't think I am still contagious, and I can wear a mask while I am there. I sure don't want to expose anyone to this stuff, especially if their immune systems are vulnerable. I ask at the desk whether I should be there. They isolate me so I won't unnecessarily spread anything to anyone else. But I do need my own levels checked to make sure I am in no danger.

The nurse chats happily with me as she unwraps a myriad of tubes and gear and unscrews tops and hooks up other stuff. She dons mask and pops the little antiseptic applicator and dobs away at my port. One, two, three insert wicked long needle now. Ow. Deep breath. Flush, flush, pull for blood.

Nothing. Shoot. She flushes again and again and tries for the red gold. Still nothing. I go through the gymnastics of raising one arm and then the other, turning my head, coughing (uh-oh), standing up, sitting down, leaning over, more flushing - nada.

The nurse suggests the old fashioned way of just sticking my arm and I refuse. The last time anyone tried to draw blood from my arm I got stuck a bazillion times and they still didn't get what they needed. I thought for sure I would end up staying for a TPA treatment, but I guess they didn't have time, so they booked me for Wednesday and sent me packing.

Hope I don't get dry dock in the meantime.

Double Trouble

I wake early with a coughing fit, padding out to the kitchen to microwave a cup of hot water, never mind the tea. I down more medicine and pace a bit until my throat clears. I am not as tired as yesterday. This is good.

Suddenly the phone rings. I answer. My accompanist is on the line. She has the stomach flu - poor baby. She has to run to the bathroom every few minutes. No way she can come. I assure her to stay home and take care of it. My staff have had this one and it passes in a day or so. Literally.

I hang up, debating what to do. I could call several people who can play and line up someone to fill in for the service. But I usually ask them to play while I am there to conduct and lead worship. I know they could handle it, but it will be stressful and uncomfortable. No, I think I better go in and play for service myself.

As long as I don't have to talk, it should be OK. I won't stay for chime rehearsal afterwards, just the service and then go home. I am pretty sure I can manage it. I bundle up and head out, armed with lots of cough drops. I explain to the early arrivals, and they graciously take care of things. I can just play and I speak softly and the person closest to me relays to the choir.

Grace of God, it is an easy anthem this week. Nothing in seventeen sharps. I can play the hymns too. I even manage to find something appropriate and relatively easy for offertory. We have spare time, so we review next week's anthem as well. After service, I zip out to the car and head home. OK. My strength must be coming back because I don't feel like a wet noodle.

I snooze for the rest of the day. Maybe I am over the worst of it. While I don't exactly bounce back, I slowly progress in that direction. My voice is returning to a normal pitch instead of a bass depth. More tea, more lemon and honey, more vitamins. I will get there.

Sleepin In

This cold saps all my energy. Today I planned to go to the gym and exercise, but that's out. I am not making any progress throwing off this cold. It still feels like I am trying to breathe through an ocean. My throat is still sore, my head achy. I call the doctor. I am concerned that nothing takes a turn into pneumonia or something else my immune system cannot handle.

No. The on-call doctor looks at my numbers and assures me that I am fully capable of fighting this virus myself. It will run its course and then be gone. I am not so sure. I hack and gag and moan and go back to bed. Poor Sugar doesn't even get walked. I can't hardly make a sound, my vocal cords are so strained.

I drink lemon and honey, hot tea, lots of water. I suck Ricola cough drops and take the Benadryl that the doctor recommended (I can't take decongestants because of my high blood pressure). I swallow Vitamin C and cuddle with a hot water bottle and anything else I can think of that might alleviate my discomfort. I finally have Kiel call and let the church know I will not be at service tomorrow. Better to take a day off and let my body deal with this than to push and spend another week sick.

I don't step foot outside all day, making the boys walk Sugar and run errands and take care of laundry and shop. I can really tell my body is not up to its usual strength. Phooey. I read three short novels and half a book about the history of healing and Christianity. I watch several movies. I want to play piano, but I am too tired. I go to bed early.

Surely this will pass soon. I try to be patient. I hug my new Bible and prop myself up with three pillows and mumble prayers until I drift off to sleep. Tomorrow will be better.

Haircut

I've been fighting it for weeks. Cutting my newly growing hair. Hair is hard to come by and it grows back very slowly. But I look silly with little bits and pokes of gray peeking out from under my lovely red brown wig. It's so apparent and ridiculous. There is no help for it. I am going to have to trim my new hair.

I sit on a kitchen chair with a towel draped around my shoulders and close my eyes while Kiel's girlfriend takes the scissors from Kiel's new trimmer set and carefully cuts off the offending locks from around my ears and in the nape of my neck. I feel like crying as little wisps of hair float down to the floor.

My hair is at the "cat's fur" stage, all soft and curly, especially in the back. I have never had curly hair, except for in the sixth grade when my Sunday School teacher gave me a home perm and I had an afro before afros were in. They called me fuzz until school let out for the summer.

I have had various perms that never made a dent in my fine, straight hair. When I was a teenager, I slept on orange juice can sized rollers all night for just a bit of body. (How did I ever do that?). Then there was the disastrous perm that left a gaping bald spot on the front of my head. That was bad.

I wore my hair long when I was in college, down to the middle of my back. Straight and long. I looked a bit like an Indian princess. But when my babies came along, the long hair went. Too hard to fuss with and too easy for little fingers to get entwined in and pull!

Now I would take even the straight fine hair of my past. I still have a sort of uneven stubble that just isn't right for public viewing. So I stick with my wig, and I trim as I need to hide my unhair neatly. At some point I suspect I will have enough to let go of the wig, but not today. Besides, I may try to replicate the wig with my own hair if I am ever able.

Meanwhile, thank goodness for wigs! Even if they are plastic.

Thank God for Kleenex

When I was a wee slip of a girl, I hired myself out to several women who lived nearby and helped them clean their house and iron laundry. Back then, most everything got ironed, including sheets and pillowcases, underwear and handkerchiefs (of the cotton variety) and not with spray starch either. With that stuff you mixed in water and soaked the clothes in it, sometimes letting them sit in the refrigerator in bowls waiting to absorb enough starch to iron without leaving white streaks everywhere.

Some Saturdays I stood at the ironing board for hours, stretching the wrinkles out of someone else's things. I didn't mind the handkerchiefs so much because they were small and square. You could tell the husband's sturdy white handkerchiefs right off. Sometimes they had a ribbon of cranberry cloth around the edge, or a navy plaid. But mostly they were white no frill basic cloths, very utilitarian.

The wife's were frilly and edged with lace and often sported an embroidered bouquet of flowers of some sort in one corner. Sometimes they were a dainty pink or yellow color, very feminine. And not too practical for blowing your nose on. Maybe more for absorbing any moistness from your palms if you were nervous, or for plain old show.

After all, in those days, a lady never left home without a purse containing at least a dime to call home if you got in trouble or needed to use the ladies room and it was a pay toilet, and a handkerchief to help maintain that pristine look.

But God help you if you had a cold and used those darn cotton handkerchiefs to blow your nose on! Ouch! If your nose wasn't sore before, it would be after a couple of swipes. Especially if you used starch when you ironed it. Who wants a snoot full of rough scratchy starch? Not to mention carrying around all those germs. Yuck.

Today while my nose was running and I had to continually wipe and blow, I was thanking the good Lord over and over that I have plenty of boxes of soft Kleenex - Puffs to be exact - around the house. I know what it is to be caught at work where you only have toilet paper to use. Your poor little nose gets rubbed raw.

And there have been times when I couldn't afford to buy Puffs and had to make do with the generic brands that are none too gentle. Today I am in good shape, and I know how lucky I am that I don't have to deal with a sore nose on top of head congestion and a sore throat. I am so grateful for Puffs. What a wonderful thing.

Now if they could just invent something to prevent you from getting a cold in the first place!

Ash Wednesday

I awoke with both a hacking cough and a sense of the start of Lent. Each Lenten season brings its own focus and impact. Some years I am deeply into self examination, confession, making things right. Other years it is more about disciplining myself by holding to some sort of fast or commitment.

This year relationships come to the fore. How am I treating my children, my grandchildren, my Mom, my sisters, my brothers, my neighbors. So much room for improvement in every area! Do I really listen when Drew tells me about important parts of his life? Not well enough. Pay attention! Do I understand what Kiel is struggling with? Sort of, but I could be more understanding. What about Mark? Yes, what about Mark. Lord, you have to help me there because I am really out of my element.

When is the last time I stopped and chatted with any of my neighbors? Too long. Do I know how the downstairs lady is feeling healthwise? What about the girl who's knee has been so painful? Did I bother to ask the next door woman how the dog's ear is and whether the infection cleared up? No. So uncaring. So wrapped up in myself. This is not right.

Relationship requires TIME and I am not giving it. I cast about for time wasters and immediately think of several things I am doing that could be left off my schedule to make room for people. I have always tended towards solitary activities. I have to work at keeping my connections open and clear.

So this year I do not go about with black marks on my forehead or give up chocolate or wear a hair shirt. This year I set aside movies and leisure reading and early bedtimes to consciously work on reconnecting with those I love. This will not be easy, but it is right.

Well Enough to Get Sick

I felt it coming on last night, that tickle in your throat cold thing. I have been more in the public space than usual, between the Gulik Gym and the dentist. And more around students at work since I am back on desk duties. It was inevitable that I be exposed. Still, its miserable to get sick.

I dutifully check my temperature, but its only a very low grade fever, not even high enough to report to the doctor. I can't take decongestants because of my blood pressure, but I start on Vitamin C and lots of fluids right away. I feel like I am trying to breathe through an ocean.

Even though my immune system is out of the danger zone, I can tell its not full bore. This is taking a huge whack out of my energy supply. I want to be careful not to let things get out of hand, so I decide I will only go to work when I have a commitment at a desk, to teach or a meeting. If my calendar is open, I will go (or stay) home.

My voice has dropped three octaves and when I cough I sound like I am about to expire. And I am exhausted. I constantly monitor to stay on top of things and sleep sitting up so the post nasal drainage will not clog the plumbing any more than necessary.

I take it for a good sign. When you are battling cancer, your body doesn't seem interested in catching colds. There are more serious things afoot. But when the crisis is past, then we can deal with more normal illnesses like colds. So, for better or worse, I will slog through this the best I can and hope for a short siege.

The Dental Assessment

Good thing I brought a book to read! Though my appointment was for 10 am, I did not get called until almost 11am! The place was packed, swarming with everyone and their brother, those with kids, those with parents, those with emergencies, those with handicaps, those from other countries. A regular teeming metropolis.

I stepped through the annual hoops of x-rays (as if I need any more radiation) and poking and prodding. The dentist is a new student. She takes her time, is thorough. That won't last, but I appreciate it. She writes stuff down, a small furrow creasing her brow. I try to read her face. It looks serious. I wait patiently until she is done with the examination. Then she takes her notes and my x-rays and heads out to consult with her instructor.

Twenty minutes later she returns and sits next to me to tell me the good news - no cavities! Yeah! Then the bad news. The muscles in my mouth are all atrophied and not holding things properly in place. She and her instructor reviewed my treatment record, and they agree that just like the other muscles in my body, the ones in my mouth are being affected by the radiation treatment.

There is no intervention possible. I will have to wait it out. But the likelihood of losing more teeth is real. And the teeth I still have are shifting about freely and unpredictably. That could be problematic. They are very concerned about my jaw bone. As teeth are pulled, there is risk that the bone will become infected. And if the cancer spreads to the jawbone, there are other considerations. . .

I have a tooth that is so out of alignment that they have to file it down today because it is in danger of fracturing by hitting the tooth above it. She takes care of it. Bleh. My mouth tastes gritty. She is planning to find out whether my insurance will cover getting partial plates which might be the best solution at this point, especially if I lose any more teeth.

I make my next two appointments and gather up my belongings to head out at last, well past a reasonable time to have spent there. I am discouraged but not undone. After all, I pretty much already knew what she confirmed. It's not the end of the world. And as my Mother reminded me, once I get dentures, I won't have any more aching teeth!

Valentine's Day

All week there has been a general titter of excitement about Valentine's Day amongst my brood. Drew got two cute little stuffed animals for his girlfriend, and Kiel got all sorts of stuff for his girlfriend from a big heart shaped pink pillow to a cuddly soft pink blanket. Cards crossed in the mail between North Carolina and Rochester, Lake George and Saratoga Springs. Chocolate appeared and disappeared. There were even beautiful roses!

Though I don't have that "special someone" at this juncture of my life, I am blessed to have sons who remember me along with their own special someone. How lovely to set their cards on the top of the entertainment center, a daily reminder of how lucky I am. How good it feels to send cards to children and grandchildren, to know I am connected and free to love them dearly.

On top of that, the kids at church played Jesus Loves Me on the handchimes, and sang along, accompanied by piano and flute. They were adorable, their eyes shining with happiness, their exuberance in ringing abundantly clear. Many people commented on their rendition with joy, hoping they will do more and often. Yes, we will. We will exclaim our love through our actions, and proclaim the love of God through our words. That's the best Valentine in the world.

Long Weekend

Normally I work six or seven weekend shifts per semester at the reference desk, and usually either Saturday or Sunday. Rarely ever both. But this is a break week for Roberts as well as for Drew. Both boys will be home, and most of our students gone. Lots of staff plan to be away as well. But our graduate students still have class and papers to complete, so we stay open for limited hours.

Since I have been off so much and others have covered for me, I am happy to step up and take both days so others can get some much needed rest. I especially want to do that while I can and my health holds out. I realize that I am far from stable yet, and when things go awry I have no control over either the amount of time consumed or the amount of strength I will forfeit.

Besides, I fully expected it to be quiet. Of course, that wasn't quite what I got today! We started with internet connection issues followed by voice mails and emails needing attention, students struggling to find resources. Then there were a myriad of details to attend to. Although there were only a handful of students in the building, we were only open for four hours which didn't leave much time to get things done.

Its OK though. Next week it should be quiet most of the week. I am hoping to get some projects launched and some research completed for upgrades and changes that are forthcoming it our library. Breaks can be good for those sorts of things.

The Bus Episode

I had asked Drew to get himself off to school without my having to get him up and going. He looked at me like I was slightly touched in the head and assured me he was perfectly capable of getting up and out the door on his own. After all, he IS 15! Ah, good. I can rest awhile longer in the morning.

Normally I am ok with getting up at 6 to see him off, and I have always encouraged him to take care of packing lunch, getting breakfast, learning to care for himself. But I have been kind of tired and it might help if I slept a bit longer in the morning, especially since those guys have kept me up later than normal at night.

Lately, he has been crawling out of bed later and later, adopting the view that one can roll out of bed, into clothes and out the door. He pays for it by not eating lunch at lunchtime and being extra hungry if he also misses breakfast. You would think he would figure out that being lazy is not worth the price you pay to go without.

So this morning, I hear his alarm go off, but I do not tromp into his room to tell him to turn it off and get up. I wait in bed and listen, watching precious minutes fly by. His alarm goes off again, and again it gets ignored. I wait, willing him to get up, to be more responsible. He does not move. Should I break my resolve and climb out and provide an intervention? No. Let him taste the effect of his decision. I am squirming with desire to make him "get it."

He will miss the bus. But he will not miss school. We do have leeway after the bus passes here for me to get him to the school nearby where he changes buses before heading to the east side of the city. I have given up on him. He has made his choice. I will have to get up - - - and suddenly he's up! He stumbles into the bathroom and closes the door. Yeah!

I hear the bus go by outside. Should I tell him? No. Let him find out for himself. I nearly burst giggling while I listen to him pack his bag, zip his coat, unlock the door and tromp up the drive. I wait for his inevitable return. Minutes tick by. If he doesn't hurry, I won't even have time to get him to Munn School. Should I dress? No. I will let it play out and see how he handles it. I listen for his steps outside, for the door to open, but he does not come. Where is he?

If he doesn't come soon, we will miss the Munn bus. I wait, hoping, hoping. At last, I hear him crunch through the snow outside. The door quietly opens. Then - nothing. No Drew peeking in my room to ask for a ride. What is he doing?

Finally I can't stand it any longer. I slide out of bed and head for the living room. He is sitting in the chair, writing something. "Drew. I already know you missed the bus. It came while you were in the bathroom. Why didn't you come and get me?"

"I know you aren't feeling well. You need rest. I didn't want to disturb you. I figured I'd just hafta stay home."

Sweet boy. But not happening. He walks Sugar quickly while I dress. He brushes off the car and we head out, hoping to beat the bus. We pull into the parking lot, and his little bus in not there yet. We made it! AND we had time to explore how the "rolling out of bed" theory doesn't work. He finally admitted it. Maybe, just maybe there is something to getting up a whole half hour before you have to be at the bus stop.

Yeah! Now let's see how long it lasts!

Long Lunches

Thursdays are long days toward the end of long weeks. Mondays are filled with port draws and staff meetings, Tuesday night is seminary classes and Wednesday I work the late shift at the reference desk. The first half of the week is full and requires lots of divided attentions and energies. Many people call Wednesday hump day, but for me, Thursday is more draining.

My coping strategy is to take a long lunch to deal with it. By noon on Thursday I am ready for a nap. Was a time I would just push myself, but life is too short not to enjoy every minute of it. So I build an hour and half lunch into my schedule and drive home to sit with Sugar and watch a movie or snooze in the chair. I take my time and don't rush. Put my feet up and thank God I have a job where I can be flexible about my hours.

Sometimes its hard to resist doing housework - cleaning up the kitchen or sorting laundry. Except I know I still do not have tons of energy and if I do that, I will not be up to finishing my work at the library or working with the choir, something I truly love doing. So I step around piles of stuff that have accumulated during the first half of the week, telling myself that when Saturday comes, it will get taken care of. Don't look.

Most days I am ready to go back to work and stay later than five. Its easier to go from the library to choir rehearsal without going home inbetween anyway. So it all works together well. This represents a major change for me, this idea of not just working from eye open to eye shut.

Space. Rest. Time. Build it in to your day. It works wonders.

Guliking

At last, at long last, I made it to the Gulik Gym during the week! I am so happy to be there despite how crowded the circuit is. I had wanted to arrive at 9am when it first opens, but I was too tired to get up early enough. I don't push these days, so I took my sweet time, happy to make it at all!

The assistant was pleasant, greeted me as I entered, asked if I was familiar with the machines. She watched me for a bit, then suggested that I slow my returns down to work the muscles to the max. She was right. It was much more demanding and I could feel the effect almost immediately.

I glanced around the room and suddenly felt old. Here I am in a room full of senior citizens most of whom appeared a bit fragile and stiff. They barely managed to lift their feet to climb on the steps in the cardio parts, and struggled with range of motion on the machines. Everyone wore glasses and had either gray hair or bald heads. Backs were permanently bent, hands gnarled. Has it come to this?

I give them credit. It must be difficult to come despite bodies that don't want to move. Here they are trying to keep joints moving. I sigh. It renews my determination to keep coming. I don't want to end up in such dire straits. Most of them could not handle going around even once. Many had to skip machines outright. I started to feel that maybe I wasn't in that bad of shape after all.

Then a thirty something gal bounced into the room. She danced on the steps and flew on the machine and actually kept time with the zippy music. I groaned. Nope. I am not in good shape. She isn't even out of breath and jokes with the assistant as she works out. She is having Fun! I glance at her setting. 8! Yikes. Ah, me.

What great perspective. I fit somewhere in between 30 and 80. I do my two rounds at level 2 and decide that next time I will bump it up to level 3. Measurable progress. If I can get stable enough, I will come early, do the water walking, and three rounds at 3. Five years of hard labor ought to help. I may never be 30 again, but I am determined to be a healthier 80.

Sugar in the Snow

Sugar loves snow! I wonder she doesn't shy from the cold, seeing how she never dons boots or coat, but she doesn't seem to mind at all. She is especially fond of hopping about when the snow is a good four inches or so, burying her muzzle in the white fluff, running with her tongue licking the fresh snow in front of her.

Today was no exception despite the cold temperatures. I wore multiple layers and carefully snapped the entire front of my coat down past my knees, wrapping two scarves around my face and pulling my black fur lined hood over my head. Drew says I look like an Eskimo.

I opened the front door and Sugar zoomed out past me, leaping off the step and plowing headlong into the white tundra beyond the sidewalk until she reached the end of her leash. She frolicked back and forth, hopping like a little bunny, twisting her head to keep from tangling in her leash. She plunged her face deep into a snowbank, sniffing and poking for familiar scents left by her doggie friends.

After some time, she took care of business, then headed out for our usual stroll around the buildings. I pretty much kept my head as covered as possible, peeking out the slit between my hood and my scarf, seeing just enough to set one foot ahead of the other. I felt the leash jerk in my hand from time to time, telling me Sugar had wandered as far as she could, or had stopped to investigate some smell.

As for me, I just kept walking ahead at my slow pace, wanting to give her enough exercise and happiness without turning into a Popsicle. Suddenly I realized that Sugar was being particularly stubborn about moving on, and I widened the slit enough to she what she was up to.

Poor thing! She was standing belly deep in snow, lifting one foot and then another, and silently whining just a bit. It looked as if she had hurt her paw. I walked up to her, tiptoeing through the snow, trying to keep it from sliding down my boots. I couldn't see anything immediately wrong, no blood gushing or anything. It wasn't until I reached my black gloved hand towards her that I saw the trouble.

Her thick fur was coated with gobs of snow. The more she walked, the more she collected. She was trying to bite at it and shake it off, but the snow was so enmeshed in her fine fur that it was not budging. I tried to loosen the cakes of cold, but I couldn't. I tried to pick her up, but her belly was so coated that she began to cry.

What a dilemma! Fortunately, we were not far from the back door, and she managed to limp her way inside where she ran in circles trying to free herself of the ice prison. I grabbed a towel, then knelt beside her trying to scrub the snow from the clutches of her fur. I got a little bit off, but it was hard work. I thought seriously of getting the hair dryer but I know she would have been afraid of the noise.

I stopped toweling for a minute, and she ran off behind the chair where she sat shaking and shivering. She would not be coaxed from her spot even for a snack. What to do? I grabbed her blanket and stuck it in the oven for a few minutes until it was warm, then set it in her little bed and called her. She came slinking toward me and gingerly stepped into the warm blanket where she lay staring at me with woe filled eyes.

By the time I finished breakfast, she was thawed out and her happy self once again. Wouldn't you think that would make her think twice about rolling around in the snow? But, oh, no! Minutes later she was scratching at the door, begging to go out again. Fat chance!

The Marvels of Modern Medicine

I am having trouble singing. Even when I speak, my voice sounds froggy. It's frustrating trying to model music for the choir, only to have no voice, or to have my voice cut off in mid song. Right after the Bexxar, I couldn't even begin to sing. There was just nothing there. As time passed, I could at least do a few notes before squawking like a duck.

When I saw the oncologist, I was still having a lot of trouble with range. That has begun to improve. I now can sing most of a C scale starting on middle C. Not much more than that though. No high range at all. So my doctor sent me to a specialist for an assessment, even though she had several Eastman voice majors and a couple of opera singers (Met ones) who experienced the same thing. Theirs all cleared up in a year or so. But just in case there is anything else going on, we should know.

How naively I sat there, thinking I would just have a conversation and then set up an appointment for any procedures. Ridiculous. After a thorough exam (ever had your tongue held on to with a gauze pad?), they stuffed an anesthetic up my nostril so they could stick a scope down my throat! Yikes! I was a bit nervous about the whole idea and said so.

The doctor smiled. "Nonsense. I do hundreds of these things. It doesn't hurt me at all." Uh, no consolation there. The speech therapist came in and set up to record what they find. Then suddenly the scope was inserted and there before me on the monitor in living color were my very own vocal cords!

They had me make some "eeee" sounds at different pitches. The finding? Its very dry in there (Bexxar) and not much mucous. The cords themselves are atrophied and do not hit together properly. In fact, they don't really close but leave a gap where there should be only firm cord. There is also some swelling (edema), and a spot where there apparently was some small cyst that has sluffed off now.

The upshot? Nothing to worry about. Since I had other muscle issues (remember the physical therapy for my rubber legs?) its not surprising that these muscles are also affected. The dryness can be addressed by drinking even more water than I am now. The atrophy will improve as I get farther out from the Bexxar. They described my situation as "just beginning to come out from under the Bexxar fog" and that in a few more months, I would find myself with more energy, better muscle tone, less effect from the Bexxar including a renewed ability to sing.

Still, to track the progress, they schedule a repeat visit in 2 months in a different office that has a different type of scope where they can measure the number of vibrations and the mucosal effect. Interesting. I am relieved both that the procedure wasn't uncomfortable, and that there isn't anything else going on to be concerned about.

Now, off to my port draw.

What Would Kayleen Think

Since I was on retreat yesterday, I didn't have a chance to finish my paper for my other class, the one on Pain, Suffering and Evil (aka Why would a good God allow that rotten thing to happen?). While I try not to do massive amounts of homework on Sundays, I have to complete everything by Sunday night because my Mondays are packed (port draws, dr appointments, meetings, ref desk, etc.).

For our final paper, we are asked to select a scenario of suffering, provide our theological points of view, our pastoral response to the general category, and then how we would respond given the scenario selected. It was easy for me to pick a specific case of suffering. Kayleen Merry was diagnosed with leukemia about the same time I was diagnosed with rectal cancer.

She was a missionary in Africa with young children, some adopted, a godly woman, a Christian, serving others. There was no history of leukemia in her family background, nor was she exposed to some pollutant or toxin, and had maintained a good diet and exercise regime. Long story short, her family moved to Minnesota so she could undergo treatment at the Mayo Clinic. After months of chemo and radiation, she went into remission only to develop a bad infection due to her suppressed immune system.

The pneumonia did not respond to any of the antibiotics, and they decided to put her on a respirator and induce a coma until they could find something that worked. She was roused once a week to make sure she was doing OK, and to interact with her young children and her husband. She finally begged to be let go, and after deliberation, her husband agreed to take her off the respirator. She died within a very short time.

Not a pretty story. She didn't deserve to suffer like that, any more than anyone else. If anyone should have been healed, she should have if only to take care of her children. Or because she did much good in the world. What do you say to someone who is dying when they ought not to be? That was the assignment. What do you say, and on what basis do you say it?

Is God cruel? Does he punish/teach humans by making them suffer? Is his retribution predictable (you sin, you pay)? I maintain not. I believe God is a good God, and that he is unhappy when we suffer and hurt. He has the power to prevent and fix, but he has chosen to allow humans to choose for themselves and determines not to take away their free will by intervening.

Over the millennia, many wrong decisions have vastly affected what is happening in this world. We are often in circumstances that cause hurt and pain that are not of our own making. We surely can pray and beseech God to deliver us, and sometimes he does that in miraculous ways, other times through natural means or through medical interventions.

Bodily healing is a temporary fix at best. Everybody dies sometime. Wholeness is more than just physical. Kayleen wrote an article that was published in a book where she talks about feeling helpless because physically she needed help with even the simplest activities. But she realized that she could still fulfill a vital purpose by praying for those around her, not just her own family, but those who battle cancer, those who went to the Africa clinic for assistance, those who are hungry or cold. She spent hours in prayer.

At one point, after she was in remission but before the infection set in, she discovered that there were women coming to the Mayo Clinic from other countries. They were there alone because their family and friends could not afford to be with them. They did not understand English well much less the customs of America, and were afraid and without help. Kayleen reached out to them, arranging for a local women's group to bring them welcome and comfort baskets filled with lotions and pretty things, just to let them know someone cared.

She was the inspiration for Jairus House, and an encouragement to me while I was undergoing treatment. I don't know if I could have asked to be released as she did. But I am sure that somewhere along her journey, someone probably said hurtful things in an attempt to make her feel better - a sort of "Job's friends" role. I have experienced that.

What did you do wrong that you have cancer? What sin are you committing? It must be that your faith isn't strong enough to get healed. Perhaps God is teaching you something. Whatever it is, 'fess up so I don't make the same mistake. I don't want to get cancer! (not said quite that bluntly, but it is a deep seated fear of many). Or maybe God knows that you will do something terrible in the future, perhaps turn your back on God or be responsible for the deaths of others, so he took you home early to prevent that. Or maybe he just likes you so much that he took you home to spend time with a favorite daughter. Or else its just your time to go. When its your time, its your time. Nothing you can do about it. Might as well let go.

Well intentioned perhaps, but not what you want to hear. Some of it isn't even theologically sound. This I know. God loves his children and does not want them to suffer. We live in a fallen world, and bad things happen to good people. I don't understand everything about God but I trust him. God does heal and does answer prayer, even though I cannot tell you why he intervenes when he does. If I could see things from God's perspective, maybe it would make i bit more sense.

I wonder what Kayleen thought about getting cancer? I wonder what she was thinking when she knew she was dying? I wonder what she would say to someone in her situation now? And I wonder how she finds heaven - undoubtedly remarkable.

So, what would you say?

A Spiritual Retreat

I had been thinking of setting aside some time for a tryst, a time of intimacy with God. Now I have no reason to procrastinate because there is a class assignment to do just that - set aside a half day to follow a prescribed set of exercises to help us intersect with the Almighty.

It's not that I needed to escape a hectic schedule or get away from the noise. No, I am still not at that level of activity. Its more that I have focused too much on my physical being and on my well being, and not enough on my spirit, my relationship with God.

I spent a long time trying to figure out where to go. There is a monastery south of Rochester that I have wanted to visit for some time now, but I knew if I went there, I would be drawn into their rhythms of life, their services and music, their silences. That wouldn't be conducive to completing the assignment. And besides, it would be so enjoyable in itself that I fear I would ignore the very one I intended to spend time with!

There is a prayer center here in Rochester, but it seemed booked with other activities and rather uncontactable. Perhaps I should rent a hotel room, but besides the cost, it doesn't seem the right place to have a special tryst, a holy encounter. Too mundane. Too many distractions. Same for the mall, same for a spare room in a friend's house.

My own place wouldn't work, and the book specifically said not where you work. But libraries are quiet, and ours is also beautiful and elegant. I thought about other libraries. Rush Rhees has some posh reading rooms - all gleaming wood and burnished brass. But there is no convenient parking, and I don't want to interrupt my meditations to have to run out into the freezing cold to feed a parking meter.

In the end, I decided to sneak into my own library, up the back stairs, and hunker down in the Fireside Reading Room clandestinely. The invitation to curl up by the fire in a room filled with huge windows was too hard to resist.

I packed excitedly, as if I were heading to the Bermudas for a secret rendezvous with my lover. My backpack is bulging with my retreat manual, my new BIG PRINT Bible that Kiel gave me for Christmas, my journal and special writing pen (the fat metal one with the smooth roller motion that fits my hand well), my purple pashima shawl to wrap up in, a small wooden cross, my heart shaped multicolored prayer beads that Drew gave me years ago, a strip on palm from last Easter - things to create a bit of sacred space.

I rise early to set my house in order - its so hard to be in the moment if your mind is in your messy kitchen! I pay the bills, work out at the gym, shower and dress comfortably, run Drew to Robotics, grab a quick and filling lunch, and finally, finally, filled with expectation, I pull into the library parking lot, swipe my card in the reader at the back door and sneak in, climbing the back stairs, my wet sneakers squeaking noisily on the rubber treads as I tiptoe to the Fireside Reading Room.

To prepare for this time, I listened to my new St Olaf CD's of sacred music. The songs are gentle, fluid, calming, uplifting - a great preparation - sort of like making sure your spirit is washed and properly attired before entering into the presence of the King's private reception room. I lay my things out on the coffee table, my bottle of cool water nearby and curl up in my shawl, taking a deep breath before beginning the exercises.

Outside, the air is white with swirling snow. I am struck by how much the tower on the front of the library resembles a church steeple. It is easy to feel I am in a sacred place. The fire crackles cheerfully, warming me to my center. The space is empty save for my self.

I read the opening prayer, confident that God will meet me immediately with the falling of the first words. I open my heart and my mind, but I do not sense the presence of God. I am alone in the room with the crackling fire, surrounded only be the swirling snow outside the windows. Surely God knew we had this time set aside, didn't he?

I persevere. I read the assigned Scripture verses. I hear only my own breath coming and going. No still small voice, no whispers of a loving God. Just quietness. I wait, closing my eyes as if in the blocking of the physical world I can somehow see the eternal one. But I only see the darkness. Where is he? Maybe he went to the wrong location! Did I even invite him before I went to all this trouble of preparation? Didn't I just assume he would know, assume he would come?

I sigh. There is nothing I can do to make myself enter into some sense of God's presence. Ten minutes go by. It's not like I can somehow muster the right feelings or pretend that I am connected. Twenty minutes without so much as a whisper. I wait uncertainly for a few more minutes, finally deciding to focus on the assignment. Even if I don't sense that God is right here with me, it will not be wasted time. There is much richness in the readings and the Scripture.

I start the first reading, and suddenly without announcement, he is there, laughing joyously at me and with me, blessing me, wrapping me in his love. I am so delighted that I stop reading and just enjoy our meeting. All sorrow at being alone is gone. This - this - is what I have been longing for. Being with him and knowing he is with me.

But we must get down to business. There is work to be done today. God reminds me of things in my past experience that were less than joyful, experiences I carry with me that affect my ability to love others freely, my ability to move forward myself. He repeatedly assures me that even when I did something inappropriate, he still loves me. I am forgiven. Life can be abundant and filled with new and satisfying things.

I move through waves of sorrow, repentance, happiness, tears, overwhelming tenderness, fulfillment, joy. It is intense. It is restorative. It is good. It is half time! I break for a bit of exercise and snack and recovery, digesting all we have been through. He is patient, waiting for me to absorb it all.

I come back to the fire, and listen to the Spirit show me how the fire is like God's love. It warms and comforts. The outside, filled with coldness and snow, is too far from the fire. Many Christians stay in the room with the fire, but are so close to the world, they get chilled and don't get the full benefit of the fire. My chair is in that just right place of being close enough to the fire to stay warm, and close enough to the world to reflect the glow and a bit of heat to those who need it.

I understand the tension, I offer my humble thought that its worse to be too cold than too hot. I sense him smile. Yes, when people are too cold, they put on layers to try and stay warm instead of drawing closer to the fire. They fill their lives with activities, possessions, responsibilities, people, ministries and cares. While that will keep some of the cold away, it leaves you numb and not able tomove or function well.

Better to come back to the fire and warm up! When you feel yourself numb, unable to care, weighed down by excess baggage, just come back to the fire, get close to God again. That is why these little retreats are so important - to help you see how far you may have strayed from God's love.

I close my eyes, contented, slide my headset over my ears, and drift on a sea of gentle music, basking in the warmth of his love. Too quickly, the time passes. Too quickly an entire half day is gone. Too soon I must pack my bag and leave our tryst, venturing back to the physicalworld, still warmed by our time together, already planning the next date. I am determined not to allow myself to grow cold.

Stitchless

Today I have the stitches removed from the second tooth extraction. I am worried because I have had a lot of pain all week long, and I suspect there are at least two other teeth that are acting up and will have to be extracted. I have an assessment appointment on the 15th, but if these two teeth don't calm down soon, I don't know if I can hold out! I need more time for the wounds to heal before sustaining any other injury.

I arrive as early as possible, hoping to be the first in line and whisk in and out before I need to be at the library. There are already five or six ahead of me by 7:30 am! Good thing I brought an assigned reading. I dig in and am busy underlining when I am surprised to hear my name called. The assistant tells me I am lucky to be the first back. I agree.

I am still nervous about what the dentist will find. Did I get an infection? Are things healing OK? I know my remaining teeth are shifting position, but will they insist on pulling something? The dentist has a heavy Spanish accent, hard to understand. She looks in my mouth, pulls at the threads with tweezers, then a quick snip, snip and the stitches are gone.

Everything looks good, she tells me. No infection, but it will take at least another whole week of healing before things settle down in there. Plenty of time to do the assessment before anything else should blow up. She bangs on my teeth with the handle of a tool, and nothing hurts all that much. I am relieved. Despite the pain and the continual Tylenol taking, I am a bit more comfortable thinking that everything was all riled up by the extraction and given enough time, the pain and discomfort will settle down.

Maybe I won't have to lose another tooth - at least not right away. I guess I can live with the pain for awhile. Besides, all this eating soft foods and Jello has made the needle on the scale go down. Not a bad side effect. "Quit fussing!" I tell myself. Get on with life. At least you are not being held together with duct tape and baling wire yet!

Purple

In the Spring semester the library staff enjoys putting on a lasagna dinner for our students who work so hard keeping the library functioning well. We plan carefully, send printed personal invitations, sign up to bring food or table decor, help with the serving or clean up. It is a very small way to thank them for their faithfulness and willingness to do boring projects.

I had signed up to bring vegetable lasagna. Not that I planned to actually make it myself. I know my limitations these days. Normally I would bake, but this year I just don't have enough energy for such things. I have eaten the Stouffer's vegetable lasagna, and know it to be delicious and wholesome, and I planned to get one, heat it in the oven, and bring it piping hot.

Best laid plans! On Wednesday, I came in early, worked late, and didn't get a chance to get to the grocery store to purchase the lasagna. Once 10 pm rolled around and I was free to leave, I was too tired to go to the store even though it was open. Well, I can get it in the morning on my way to work. I am more energetic in the morning anyway.

I strolled into Wegmans at 7 am, heading for the frozen food section and toying with the idea of getting a scone for breakfast. I passed a beautiful display of deep purple iris bouquets begging to be bought and taken home. How gorgeous they are! I stopped to admire them, drinking in their springy flavor and sweet scent.

I finally tore myself away to pick up the desired items, thinking all the time that I have not had any fresh flowers at home for awhile. The iris was not expensive, just a few dollars. I know they won't last long, but how refreshing it would be to bathe my eyes with their beauty. I realized that taking them home wouldn't work since I spend most of my day at the library, and when I am home I go to bed shortly after I arrive.

Yes, I could put them in my office. Of course, I spend much of my time at the ref desk or the circ desk, so I still wouldn't see much of them. Even so, a glance now and again would feed my soul. Then, ashamed of my selfishness, I knew what I must do. I walked purposely back to the floral display and searched for a bouquet where not all of the flowers had opened yet. I selected just the right bunch and added them to my basket.

They now nod and smile from a corner of the public circ desk at everyone who comes into the library, blessing their day with a ray of sunshine, a dab of delight. Workers at the desk mention how sweet they smell. Patrons invariably smile and exclaim about how pretty they are. It is like getting a face lift in mid winter. Just a suggestion that the snow and ice won't last.

For me, the enjoyment I see on the faces of those who are touched by the irises, is an ambrosia hard to find. I smile inwardly every time I see someone blessed by the beauty of God's good world. How fitting, the color purple, for they are robed in majestic splendor.

Saying No

Because I am a naturally inquisitive person, I love to participate in all sorts of activities. I always enjoy exploring new subjects, meeting new people, participating in new experiences. I tend to list on my calendar all sorts of activities that peak my interest, then deciding at the last moment whether I will actually go or not.

They are not firm commitments, just suggestions of potential experiences I might try. My approach to life is rather like a layered onion. At the core are the necessary items, and you are free to peel away the unnecessary layers as needed. I only do what I have time, energy and resources to do and never feel bad about not going to something that isn't vital.

Others look at my double and triple booked calendar and call me driven. They simply don't understand my approach, that's all. I keep lots of things on my radar screen that I never get to. Like dance classes. I have wanted to do that for almost 20 years now, but never quite find the time, energy and resources at the same time to make it happen.

For the most part, I manage to participate in lots of things and have become adept at judging and balancing so that I never expend too much time and end up in some sort of deficit crunch. Lately though, I haven't even been putting extra things on my calendar. I am still trying to get all the necessary pieces taken care of.

I look at things like RPO concerts and lectures that I would love to attend and know better than to even consider it. It makes me somewhat sad. I haven't even gotten to the stage where I can keep contact with all my friends yet. I used to enjoy long conversations with many people, but they have all had to be on hold for almost a year. I want to catch up, but I don't yet have the strength to do that and still handle work.

As for the housework, that's still a bit spotty. Some weeks I can do it, others I struggle to keep up. Thank goodness I get some help from the boys in that department! I know it will not be this way forever. Gradually, over the course of the next few months, as I recover, I will return to a more normal pace for me. The oncologist said at least 6 months into the year without taking into account the May chemo treatment forthcoming.

So I wait patiently for a full recovery, continuing to say no to many things I would like to do. Visiting my grandkids in North Carolina is currently at the top of my list. Meanwhile, I am happy every day that I am walking, working, functioning relatively well. So if you hear a "no" from me, don't take it personally. Just be patient. I will come around.

Aaaahhhhhhhh!!!!!!

6am. I am still doing my 'subconscious' praying - you know, where you aren't quite awake yet, but your mind is heavy about someone or some situation and you are mumbling prayers on their behalf. My body is stiff and weary. I do not want to get up. I know I must, but I can't convince my legs to swing over the side of the bed.

Sugar is whining and needs to go out. Yeah, yeah. In a minute. I sigh and manage to sort of sit up, then haul myself off to the bathroom. I turn on the hot water faucet in the shower, stand sleeping slumped against the wall until I sense steam, then I adjust with cold water to the exact perfect temperature.

I step slowly over the side of the tub and into the flowing stream. Aaaaahhhhhh!!!!!!! How blessed I am! The warm liquid swirls over my tired shoulders, caressing my aching muscles, massaging my cramped back muscles, relaxing my arms. I am warmed as if I had cuddled in a thick down comforter or a multi-layered quilt. I let the water drizzle over my fuzzy head and trickle down my cheeks. Am I not the most fortunate person?

I just stand there, soaking it in, reveling in the pleasure, feeling guilty for wasting water when half the world is thirsty, yet valuing the therapeutic effect. I take a deep breath and watch the steam swirl up over the shower curtain rod, poofing out into the room, drawn to the ceiling fan in a pixie dance. The shower curtain flutters with the grandeur of it all, making the little printed brightly hued fish seem to swim.

I exhale and feel the weariness lift, feel the warmth to the core of my being, feel the cool splash of the rising mist wash my face. I breathe again, down to my very toes, holding it in like some smoker drawing every ounce of possible pleasure before releasing the air into the spray of the shower. I bury my face in the vigorous streams of water, turning, turning so every centimeter of my body is blessed. Ahhhhhh. Yes. The weight is rinsing down the drain.

I know I must end this orgy, but I resist. Just one more minute. Just one more. Turn, turn, stand with your back to the inebriating flow, bend, stretch, crack your spine bones, twist. Wipe the water from your eyes, taste the chlorine on your lips, flip your head to toss the water from your stubble of hair.

Truly, truly, I am so fortunate to have this amazing resource available to rejuvenate and uplift my weary weary self. What a great way to start another day.

Tooth #20

Arghhh! More toothache. As much as I want to think it will clear up by itself, I know I have to have it looked at, and I shouldn't delay. Another day at the dental ER is not my idea of a good beginning to the week. Besides, I am sure it will have to be pulled, a third tooth in less than two weeks. Pooh.

I am at a low point. How many teeth will I end up losing? After all I have been through, I am not ready for another battle. I prefer some time to recuperate first, but I am not offered that option. OK. Lord? Can you help me get through this? I can't do it. I'm just worn out. No reserves left.

A pleasant young man calls my name and I follow him to a small room. He asks about my sweatwshirt that proclaims "Northeastern Seminary." Turns out, his aunt and uncle, whom I know well, work at RWC and he was a student there, an art major, back in the day. We chat happily about Roberts and faith and connections and pottery.

My dentist is thorough, but I soon realize that she doesn't have a lot of experience with pulling teeth that are in my teeth's condition. She is confident that she can handle it just fine, but the supervising dentist comes in. I am not the run of the mill mouth. The assistant and I agree - I will hold my mouth open and he will pray that it comes out quickly and easily with no complications. I can see in his eyes that he is confident that the overseeing dentist is excellent and it should be just fine.

The experienced dentist, a short dark haired gentleman, and the new dentist, a young Asian woman, look at my xray. Tooth # 20. The root is bent. The top is fragile. It will have to be handled gently. They discuss process, then begin. First she works on my tooth, then he takes her hands to guide her, talking all the while. Before too many minutes, he takes the tool himself.

The assistant very graciously reaches over and holds my hand. I know he is praying. I almost giggle when it dawns on me that God heard my prayer for help and sent a comrade in arms to be with me. I suddenly feel the strength of God, the encouragement of knowing that even if I wasn't prepared for this part of the journey, God is with me, providing his ability to get me through. Now its three against two - better odds. I trust this young man I just met, we are brother and sister in Christ. He knows the skinny, and will be up front with me, I am sure.

She pulls with the pliers. Nothing. He takes the tool and with one swift motion it is out. He holds the bloody thing in the air in front of my face, showing the angle and how to work with it just so while she nods her head. Please! Put that thing down! Bite the gauze, go over the familiar instructions, and voila! Wobbling back to my car and heading home. Sigh. Sure hope that's the last one for awhile. I still need a break.