That Time of Year, Again

December 5, which leaves 20 days until Christmas - my favorite holiday ever. Yet, as always, I am not ready, whatever ready means to me at any given moment or in any given year.

Gifts bought - yep
Wrapping accoutrement's ready - yep
Gifts wrapped - nope
Christmas cards - maybe not this year
Outside lights up - nope
Inside decorations up - nope
Tree up and decorated - nope
Christmas eve dinner menu - nope
Christmas cookies - oh god....
Fall decorations down and put away - nope
Spring chandelier decorations put away - nope
Papers graded and grades submitted - nope

I alternate between sheer anxiety meltdown and pretending that Christmas is really quite a long way off. And hover endlessly in a state of stasis where absolutely nothing moves and all thoughts are banned. And I am back again, all over again, at the place every year I say I will never be again, and again, and again. I take great pride in my consistency of character!

I am quite actively entertaining the idea that maybe being "ready" in things is not so important. Being ready in spirit may be a more conducive approach to what is generally widely accepted as the most stressful time of the year; take joy in each day, whatever is in it and not worry and fret so much about all of the things I HAVE TO DO! I think that this year I will try to just wake up to the day and walk through it in peace and serenity. Walk through it in gratitude for the all I have been blessed with in my life. Carry the spirit of this beautiful holiday within me, sharing it as I go through another gift of a day. I suspect that a change in my demeanor might invite a more kind and loving approach to the coming 20 days, and maybe even thereafter.

(More) Adventures in Breathing

I recently spent a truly lovely weekend in the hospital, and have I mentioned lately how much I love my lung disease? It has given me much to write about and study and most important of all, it has taken up a considerable portion of my limited discretionary time! This is great as I don’t really have to wonder what to do with it (the spare time).

And Prednisone!!! My drug of choice. Once again it has reared its ugly head.

I was trying to get off of Prednisone (under medical supervision) and had dramatic, painful, confusing, frightening results, which ultimately led to my spa vacation in the hospital. Once again contemplating death by suffocation. But that did not last for more than a nanosecond or two as it is not very useful to contemplate. But the past month spending various numbers of days on different doses of Prednisone, as my physician tried to tinker and adjust and readjust has been a steroid roller coaster.

Huffing and puffing my way through the last month has been discouraging. A year and a half of very high dose prednisone, no improvement at all in my lung condition, and now, serious problems when lowering and getting off of prednisone. I was only off of it completely for a week. That week resulted in an acute adrenal crisis and I had to go back on the drug. Now, I am on a higher dose than a month ago. Breathing hard, constricted inhalations, pain.

Every now and then I just need to get my feelings about lungs and steroids "off of my chest," so to speak! I am really not whining - really. Just "venting?"

And more will be revealed.

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ELECTION DAY 2008

I voted today!

Did YOU???

PAPARAZZI MANEUVERS AT TARGET

When the Baby Girls and I get together, we always make sure to spend some time on practicing our maneuvers for outwitting paparazzi – and time well spent! The Baby Girls, or as some are beginning to call them, the Super Sisters, have outgrown the confines of Syracuse and have quickly begun the road to becoming legends in their own time, in places far and wide, in our global world.

Not surprising. As I mentioned earlier, Cecelia’s last – ultimate – ballet recital was standing room only. Cecelia not only excels on scooter and bicycle, but also is a champion swimmer at her young age. Water ballet, high dives, back stroke; she does them all so well that Michael Phillips has already noted that he is grateful that Olympic swimming is not a coed competition! To think she is only 9 years old!

Olivia’s prowess at soccer is a phenomenon rarely seen on the playing fields. Although only 8 years old, she is being compared to Mia Hamm, Zinedine Zidane, Julie Foudy, even Pele! Olivia is noted for her excellence not only in sports, but further, in the fine arts. From an early age, she has shown shades of brilliance in her colorful and exotic artwork. She works in crayon and markers on newsprint – not a common medium, which sets her work even further apart from the more banal post-modern world. Just as the child Mozart showed evidence of his creativity on piano and violin, Olivia has already revealed her prodigious abilities in piano playing and singing.

Together, the Baby Girls combine the best of their talents. If you have ever had the privilege to see one of their shows, you know of what I speak! Their most recent foray onto the stage of musical comedy was an original interpretation of “Thing One & Thing Two.” They did set design and costuming as well. It was a delightful and light-hearted; “a clumsy, hilarious, funny show.” They donated all of the proceeds to the literacy program at their city library.

It is understandable that the popularity and fame of the Baby Girls is growing hourly. When we realized this, it was clear that such popularity and fame would include cover stories in People, USA Today, O magazine, appearances on Oprah, the Daily Show, The View, and of course – the paparazzi! That odious subspecies preying on the rich and famous. Always on the lookout for “Stars and Idols.” Cameras loaded and waiting. They make life miserable on a 24-7 basis. In an effort to avoid their noxious ubiquity, stars go to unbelievable lengths to avoid them, to find some private moments in a now-public life.

Knowing that this was soon to be their fate as well, the Baby Girls began to practice avoidance maneuvers at Target. What better place to begin, as the paparazzi already knew that Target is where everyone who is anyone shops! So we drive to a Target and park the car, an unobtrusive navy blue sedan. We altered where we parked on each trial run to see if there was a spot more advantageous for slipping in and out of the store unobserved. Then we assume a pose, hurried, slumped, huddled, together, or apart, varying the pose as well to see if one worked better than the other did. It was such a drag to have to dress down to go to Target. But without a doubt, any of the Baby Girls normal chic, avant garde wear was sure to attract immediate attention. In and out of Target we would go, ever vigilant for any suspicious characters paying more than usual attention to us. Pointing fingers, looks that lasted longer than 3 seconds, looks with giggles, faced wrapped in astonishment, all were clues that time was running out - FAST!

This was becoming a part of life now for the Baby Girls – the practice of avoiding the paparazzi. The Baby Girls extended their maneuvers to locations such as Cheeburger Cheeburger, Nordstrom’s, Barnes & Noble, Costco, Denny’s, and on and on and on.

One day at a local restaurant, it occured to us we had neglected to go into one of our camouflage routines! We quickly scanned the restaurant and then lowered our heads whispering about strategy. It was at that point that the Baby Girls’ father, Michael, asked us what we were doing. Cecelia gave him an exasperated look and said, “We are hiding from the paparazzi,” implying with every word that he had committed an egregious error even asking such a question. Michael had a puzzled look on his face, not knowing what to do next. Then, Olivia, out of nowhere, looked at her father and asked, “What are paparazzi anyway?”

BACK TO SCHOOL

Kent & Raka's Wedding

Kent & Raka were married June 28, 2008 in a very personal and loving Hindu ceremony. This video - while disjointed - features some yportions of the ceremo. It was a blessed and joyous day.

Both light and shadow
are the dance of Love.
Love has no cause;
it is the astrolabe of God’s secrets.
Lover and Loving are inseparable
and timeless.
Although I may try to describe Love
when I experience it I am speechless.
Although I may try to write about Love
I am rendered helpless;
my pen breaks and the paper slips away
at the ineffable place
where Lover, Loving and Loved are one.
Every moment is made glorious
by the light of Love.

Rumi, The Meaning of Love

In Full Bloom

We have been having extremely hot, humid weather lately and it has pushed many of the flowers to bloom early and fast. The bearded, blue flag and Siberian iris went through their panorama of colors 2 weeks ago. The peonies have been and gone, and as always, their fragrance was delicious.
The Stella d'oro day lilies are in full bloom, lemony sumptuous yellows that glow. And I have masses of orange day lilies lighting up the side of my house. All of the roses have already had their first blooms as well. Last week I cleaned up and freshened their soil, fed them and cleaned the leaves and am delighted with all the new buds they have. While working near them yesterday the scent of the opening flowers was so sweet and heady!
I have already harvested the lavender. It bloomed early this year and I have scads of beautiful fragrant lavender buds in shades of blue and purple to keep me and my friends well stocked for the year.

The daisy's are blooming along with all the different varieties of coreopsis that my daughter Megan gave me 2 years ago. They are feathery and fragile in appearance but quite hardy in actual fact. And who knew that yellow came in so many shades! I just love them.
The spider worts are in bloom - huge wavy stalks with delicate flowers of deep purple and magenta. They stand watch over my "dessert" garden; the succulents. Last year many of these died off but they seem to be returning and growing in well this summer. And the hens are being fruitful with chicks!
The blue salvias have already had their first bloom as well. I trimmed them back last week and refreshed their soil. They will continue all summer, lining the front path to the door.

The hummingbirds have moved in to the honeysuckle! At least it seems that way. The honeysuckle is wildly growing and in full bloom on the back deck. It has been glowing sunset shades of orange and yellow for over a month now and it is truly gorgeous. And another treat for the hummingbirds is all monarda! The buds have burst out into redder-than-red tall brilliance creating a tall thick buffet for butterflies and hummingbirds.

And there are more flowers to come! It is such a treat to go out every day and see what has opened up. The fragrances are wonderful and the yard looks like a rainbow! I was reading in one of my gardening books yesterday and there was a Chinese proverb given that gave me a chuckle:

Eat and be happy for a day
Marry and be happy for a year
Garden and be happy for life

The Fabulous Root Girls

I just spent the weekend in Syracuse with the fabulous, talented, brilliant, kind & loving Root Girls, aka the baby girls. Cecelia Lobelia, the successor to Pavlova, was hanging up her ballet slippers so I went to experience her final dance concert. It was a poignant and sad occasion to see such grace and talent and know that it would not come again. And Livy Lou Who, World Cup Soccer champion and fashionista had a soccer game so I had the opportunity to see her performance on the field and YES, she is just awesome!

Here is a video of the Root Girls which includes some of their scooter and bicycle daredevil stunts. I was fortunate as well to get an exclusive interview with them right before their game with the Bad Omens! So check out Thorn and Dusk, the Wiccan Scooter Girls.

PARTICULATE MATTER NONATTAINMENT AREA

This past week has wreaked hell on my lungs. We had heat indexes of 100 degrees or higher. The air quality rating was RED! Either of these mean I stay in the house and just try not to breathe! OK - at least I can breathe.
My sarcoidosis has not remitted this past year. I am thinking it is now chronic?! It just goes back and forth from about 58% to 70% on my blood oxygen levels. I am still and forever on steroids, and I live in one of the worst areas of the country for anyone who has lungs and breathes the air!
According to the Maryland Department of the Environment:

A function that our bodies perform continuously and automatically is breathing. Healthy adult lungs take in about one pint of air 12 to 15 times each minute. Breathing supplies our bodies with oxygen and removes carbon dioxide. Clean air is essential for human health and the environment. Air pollution has both acute and chronic effects on human health, damages vegetation, degrades water quality and impairs visibility.

Wait - there's more!

The Baltimore metropolitan region and Cecil County are designated as severe ground level ozone "nonattainment areas" by the U.S. Environment Protection Agency (U.S. EPA).

AND:

Air pollution can impact our health over short periods of time or accumulate in our systems to pose chronic health concerns. When people have a short-term exposure to air pollutants above certain levels, they may experience temporary health concerns, such as eye irritation, throat irritation, and difficulty breathing. Exposure to air pollution may also trigger attacks of pre-existing lung conditions such as asthma. Long-term exposure to air pollution can cause or aggravate chronic health concerns, such as cancer and damage to the body's immune, neurological, reproductive, and respiratory systems.

Need I say more?

Baby Boy Fletcher Plays Nosey-Nosey

BEING TRADED

Cecelia called me the other day. I picked up the phone and she said "OK. We can do a trade so that my daddy can go see the space shuttle launch." And then there was silence.....

I intuited that she was trading her father's presence at her ballet recital at the end of May for ME being at her ballet recital! I had no idea I was involved in a trade, but I must say that I certainly cannot complain about the result.

This is Cecelia's last ballet recital as she has decided to not take lessons after this year. So it has become a bit more important for those of us who love sitting through 5 hours of dancing sprites, nymphs, and fairies just to see the 2 minutes our "child" is on stage! Actually, I exaggerate - the last recital was only 4 hours.

Unfortunately, the weekend of this ultimate performance was the same weekend that her father, Michael, had an opportunity to go see the next space shuttle launch at Cape Canaveral, with Lester. Being at the launch is part of the Federal Government Leadership Institute Program Lester is in. That is a pretty cool "perk!" The trip to Florida includes briefings at NASA as well as "front row" seats at the actual launch. Lester can bring one guest and we both thought that Michael would enjoy this to no end. Michael has such a wonderful curiosity and takes much pleasure in experiencing all facets of this world. But he turned it down, being the wonderful dad that he is, because he did not want to hurt Cecelia's feelings.

So Cecelia took it into her very own competent 8 year old hands and figured out that having Gramma visit for the weekend would be a fair and judicious trade for her father. And for Cecelia and Olivia, it would most likely be much more happy, joyous, and free, than having a parent! I tend to be a bit less structured, shall we say, than are the parents! So I will go off to see Cecelia's last recital and Michael and Lester will go off to see the space shuttle launch. A very reasonable trade!

Ride Like the Wind

Easter weekend in Syracuse. Cold, snow still on the ground. Par for the course in March in Upstate New York. I was there for a visit with the Baby Girls so the weather was irrelevant to having great fun and excitement.
And such fun and excitement there was! Cecelia and Olivia had just the day before learned to ride their two wheel bikes! Not even 24 hours ago – and they had learned yet another thrilling way to explore their world. Another way to loosen the bonds that held them within the secure protective circle of family and childhood.

They were beaming – smiles split their faces with sheer pleasure – their sense of accomplishment came spilling from their eyes. “Watch me! Watch me!” They were the first and only girls in the entire history of the world who mastered such a feat. “Watch me!”

Around and around the block they soared; the wind picking up their hair and spinning it behind them. Their legs pumped so effortlessly. Their faces glowed as the roses in their cheeks bloomed. The Baby Girls were off on yet another adventure using wheels and abundant energy to propel them around the corner, out of sight.

As they circumvented the block, I pondered. A conundrum teased me. I wondered, where did that joy go? I remember the utter and perfect feeling of gliding, spinning, rushing through the air on my second hand huffy. I was no longer earth bound – I was a superhero. My bicycle was my passport to the Indy 500, to the Time Machine, to the goblins, and tigers, and mysteries across the border of the known world. Moreover, I was anxious to explore these new and fantastical lands – making myself tremble with little frissons of fear as I sped through the streets, and loving every minute of it. Where do those delicious feelings go? When do the days become prosaic? I no longer rush out of bed, pull on shorts and keds, and run out to my bike. I no longer rush into the adventure of the day, open to endless possibilities. How do we loose such splendid feelings of intensity and joy? Why do we loose them?

“Gramma, Gramma. Watch me!” And around the corner come the Baby Girls, flying like the wind on their two wheelers. Where had they been? What new lands did they discover? Maybe they crossed raging rivers in Colorado, rescued stranded ponies on the high plains. Or maybe they had been riding Route 66 in a T Bird convertible. “Watch me. Watch me!” They come screeching to a stop fight at my feet. Maybe it is time to get them tattoos to go with my imagination.

Alcoholism

A recent Newsweek cover story (March 3, 2008) was on alcoholism and other addictions. Some startling and potentially life-changing advances are being made in treatment of addictions. In particular, the following grabbed my attention:

"Geneticists have found the first few (of what is likely to be many) gene variants that predispose people to addiction, helping explain why only about one person in 10 who tries an addictive drug actually becomes hooked on it. Neuroscientists are mapping the intricate network of triggers and feedback loops that are set in motion by the taste—or, for that matter, the sight or thought—of a beer or a cigarette; they have learned to identify the signal that an alcoholic is about to pour a drink even before he's aware of it himself, and trace the impulse back to its origins in the primitive midbrain. And they are learning to interrupt and control these processes at numerous points along the way. Among more than 200 compounds being developed or tested by NIDA are ones that block the intoxicating effects of drugs, including vaccines that train the body's own immune system to bar them from the brain. Other compounds have the amazing ability to intervene in the cortex in the last milliseconds before the impulse to reach for a glass translates into action. To the extent that "willpower" is a meaningful concept at all, the era of willpower-in-a-pill may be just over the horizon."

This news left me unsettled and questioning. As a recovering alcoholic I cannot help but look at this from a personal angle. It makes me think about the psychology of the disease; the sociology of being an alcoholic in today's society. It would be a major paradigm shift were we to treat alcoholism with pills and vaccines which would all but guarantee to eradicate the addiction. But will these medical responses be sufficient? Or will the alcoholic be left with yet another empty space needing to be filled with some other addicting substance or behavior?

As alcoholics, the quick easy fix is always a HUGE temptation; it is the first thing we look for! Taking a pill, well, cool! It would be just like taking a drink - something we are good at! But are we "cured" by just not drinking? Or is there something else that contributes to long term sobriety which is more than a pill or vaccine? Is curing alcoholism really just this simple?

If there were such a silver bullet, it would be welcomed by so many friends and family members of alcoholics. The havoc we wreak on their lives would be over. Our alcoholic insanities would come to an end. But who will decide if an alcoholic should, yet again, "take the cure?" The family? Medical personnel? Treatment counselors? WAIT! What about the alcoholic? We are a very sorry lot at our bottoms and are not likely to even realize how sick we are. The misery and despair are normal, the hangovers and blackouts just as familiar and routine as breathing. We are generally the LAST to see that we are desperately ill. We don't know or care that our alcoholism will ultimately kill us. So, who decides?

At least we will have time to ponder the many questions that the discovery of a cure for alcoholism raises. The article predicts we are about 10 years away from any miracle medical cures for the alcoholic. And ponder it we should. Are we really fixing anything or are we just creating new social, behavioral, psychological, spiritual problems? Would I give up the miracle of my sobriety for a pill which would guarantee that I will never drink again? Would I lose the constant marvel of living in each day because I would no longer need to stay in the moment, sober and trusting that my god will take care of me. What would my life look like today without having to have bared my soul, looked at myself in a mirror that illuminated every bit of my part in the alcoholic life. Would I still have discovered the colors of the world as my soul, my heart, my mind began to slowly come to? As I came to believe? To trust that there was a reason for my life that transcended my alcoholism? Can a pill offer me the new way of life that I have been living one day at a time for the past 14 years?

Good questions.

The Baby Boy Finds His Toes!

In an otherwise rather banal and prosaic February, a definite high point was Baby Boy Fletcher's finding his toes, feet, and mouth AND his efforts to connect the bottom parts to the top! Put him down on his back and both legs go up in the air, creating a rather 90-degreeish angle. Then a smile takes over his entire face and the hands grab for the feet as the feet rotate towards the mouth. Almost! Oops! Got it - nope lost it again.

An especial treat is seen when changing the baby boy's diaper. As soon as his diaper comes off, he joyfully takes advantage of this unexpected opportunity - absolute freedom! No bulky encumbrances to impede him, away he goes, feet to mouth! The absolute delight in this act, minor as it may seem to we jaded adults, is evident in the sheer sparkle in his eyes, the wide and ecstatic grin on his face, the giggles and trills which escape from his mouth.

And I sit transfixed and watch this little person as if he were performing a double lung transplant one-handed. Actually it is ever so much more important and impressive than any surgery - it is a baby learning! A wonder and a miracle. Inexplicable. The grace of god.

WHAT ME? POWERLESS?

I was at a first step meeting last night and today I went to a big book meeting and the discussion was on powerlessness - again! I guess I needed to hear this, at least twice, if not every day. I know I am powerless against that first drink - this I know for sure. But what has been worrying me lately is that I am feeling like I am taking back my old life again. That maybe I have sufficient defense against that first drink after all these years. That relapse cannot happen to me. After all, I am working the steps right now with a newcomer so that should protect me, right?

And the longer I don't work my program, the more difficult I find it to jump back in. Yet when I do - I love it! The people in the rooms know me and love me in spite of myself. Even when they do not "know" me, they know me and care. Why is it sometimes so very difficult to accept this, do the "WE" part of step one.

Someone shared a wonderful metaphor today at the meeting. He was talking about being a kid and putting the baseball card on the spokes of a bike with a wooden clothespin. I remember doing that. It felt so sophisticated and so cool! But at some point all the spinning of the wheel, the going around and around, over and over, again and again, destroys the baseball card and it disintegrates or just falls away. And it occurred to me that that is what being an alcoholic is like - feeling sophisticated and cool at first, drinking to fit in, flying around in wild wonderful endless arcs. Then the wonderful starts to fade and the spinning gets faster and faster and yet never catches up again with that blissful feeling. Just like the once new and pristine baseball card could not go back to its original shape, color, form.

And then spinning, spinning, needing more and more alcohol to fuel the spins, stuck - going around and around, over and over, and again and again. Until I could not longer hold on to the spokes of my life: to myself.

Great metaphor! I guess that there is something to going to meetings! Dare I say "It works, if you work it?!"

An Homage to Joe Pilates

Pilates was "created" by Joseph Pilates during World War 1 as a system of physical movement to enhance the rehabilitation of returning war veterans. It was seen as being beneficial to overall physical and emotional well being. The principles are control, centering, precision, breathing, concentration, and flowing motion - somewhat similar to the practice of yoga.

Wikopedia noted that:

According to practitioners, the central aim of Pilates is to create a fusion of mind and body, so that without thinking about it the body will move with economy, grace, and balance. The end goal is to produce an attention-free union of mind and body. Practitioners believe in using one's body to the greatest advantage, making the most of its strengths, counteracting its weaknesses, and correcting its imbalances. The method requires that one constantly pay attention to one's body while doing the movements. Paying attention to movement is so vital that it is more important than any other single aspect of the movements.

So, here I am with my damaged lungs, struggling to get up a flight of stairs. I tried weight training and the sudden and extreme exertion of the movements led very quickly to overwhelming fatigue. The treadmill I can do, but I felt I needed something else. I am so fat and awkward with this unexpected and useless weight which I know I cannot lose unless I go off of the steroids. And right that is not very likely! So I looked around to see if there were any other physical activities that could make me feel more balanced, flexible, tall, thin & blond.

I decided to settle for flexible and balanced so I signed up to take Pilates at my gym. And I am ever so grateful that I have a well-developed sense of the humor about most aspects of my daily life! Else I would have fled in tears - no, hysterics - needing at least a month of intensive in-patient treatment at a very good mental health facility to recover from my Pilates experience.

I could not even assume the Pilates Stance; a way of standing that puts your feet at an awkward angle to the rest of the body and assumes you can stay in an upright position while holding this stance. I less than gracefully wobbled and then fell.

Next we had to lay on our backs - me trying to see over the mountain of my belly - and slowly sit up using our core muscles (mine are just buried too deep to be found) and then, bend our body slowly into a "C" shape. This is where I lost it - I was laughing so hard I fell off the platform. I can no more do a sit up than I can be tall, thin, and blond these days. I was able to raise my shoulders; that was it. I tried again and rocked my body to get a bit of a momentum; no go. So I just used my arms and pushed myself up, laughing all the while.

But it did not end here. I had to make a "C" shape with my body. I started to bend from my seated position and very quickly realized that this only did one thing to my body - it cut off my breathing - the very thing I was hoping to enhance! Whatever it was I looked like, sitting there with a small bend to my upper body as my belly fat put an end to any more bending, it was not a "C!" That is when I lost it laughing and fell off the platform.
I am sure god was laughing with me too!

There was a time in my life, most of my life actually, when I would not go out in public wearing gym clothing and being so fat (of course, until this past year, I have never been so fat). I was too self-conscious, self-centered, and I knew that EVERYONE was looking at me in shock and awe that I was so fat and could still walk AND go out in public! There was a time when I would not even wear gym-type clothing, shorts, bathing suits, running bras, nor take any group exercise class. No swimming pools, no hot pants, just layers of baggy loose cotton. And mind you, most of my life, I was a petite size 4! I weighed 90 pounds when I was married at age 20 (I am 5'2") and I got down to the low 80s in my late 30's and still felt fat.

And now I am my own worst nightmare! And I find it hilarious. Funny. A source of humorous stories. I don't like that I am fat and that in itself is very unhealthy - and that I am fat because I have to take steroids for a chronic lung disease which has reduced my lung capacity by 40 percent. That is not funny. But I might as well put the other 60% to good use and laugh it all away!

Simplicity

“Live each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influences of each.”

Henry David Thoreau

1. Flying to Cecelia

Chapter One of FLYING WITH CECELIA: Actually, about her life and times and being her gramma.

August 18, 1999. I remember getting the phone call from Michael. "Megan’s in labor. Why don’t you come out now." I had been anxiously awaiting this call and now that it came, I felt suddenly overwhelmed. Here it was, the arrival of my first grandchild. What would it be? A boy? Hmmmmm…our family was mostly girls and a boy would be an adjustment. A girl? That’s the right answer I thought!

So I went to the airport and got on the plane to Syracuse. There I was, up in the air on a beautiful summer afternoon. And I had nothing to do. A dangerous place for me to be. I did what I usually do when I have nothing to do – I think. I ruminate. I fuss. I bother. I get into those little nooks and cranny's that merit being left in the dark. Elaborate conversations take place in my head. And sometimes they are downright silly.

So, never one to let dangerous places and behaviors stop me, I said to myself “I wonder when I will love this baby?” Never having been a gramma before, I was clueless about the emotional side of things. I knew that my love for my daughters was immediate and forever. But this was not a daughter – it was a grand-something. So I wondered next if I would even love this baby! Maybe grandparents did not experience the depth and strength of feelings for a child “once removed” from themselves. Then I figured that I probably would love the baby, but when? Would it take a couple of days? Weeks? How long? Someone, please tell me! Maybe there is something on the Internet - I need to search the Internet. That surely will tell me. When, how, when?

I continued thinking in this vein for the remainder of the flight. It was a good thing that it was a short flight! Who knows where I might have ended up with these less than quotidian questions.

I got to Syracuse and commenced the waiting process. Megan labored and she labored and she labored. And I waited. I had gone to Megan and Mike’s home to get things ready, although I really had no idea what things, or where they were. So I waited some more and finally, fell asleep on the couch. Around 2:00 am, Michael called to tell me that they had a girl (oh for joy!) and everyone was doing well. He said he would pick me up in the morning and take me to the hospital so I could meet Cecelia Ellis Root! A girl! I was excited, thankful, relieved that Megan and Cecelia were both doing well. But I was not in love with the baby. So, hearing about the new baby was not the answer to my incessant questions. WHEN would I know I loved her? Would it even happen? How long would it take? Awake at 2 in the morning is also not a good place for me to be!

So, the morning of August 19, 1999 I went to St. Joseph’s Hospital to meet Cecelia. All the way there I was wondering, puzzling, ruminating, obsessing, worrying, about loving this new baby girl. What I would think about this new person in my life? And still wondering when it would be that I would love her. How many minutes, hours, days, egad - weeks?! Walking up to the hospital, still wondering. How long would it take to love her? Into the lobby, in the elevator, when does a gramma love a grandchild? walking to Megan’s room. When will I love this baby? How long is it going to take? Will I love this baby? What am I going to feel about this baby?

Baby love. Be my baby. Baby I’m yours. Sweet baby baby. Baby I love your way, Love to love you baby, Pure love baby, Love struck baby, Baby you send me, I love my baby.

Finally, I was in the room. Michael handed me the tiny warm bundle of a baby – I took her in my arms and held her close to me. I was in love.

Ooh baby I love your way every day
Wanna tell you I love your way uuhh
Wanna be with you night and day
Ooh baby I love your way every day
Wanna tell you I love your way uuhh
Wanna be with you night and day.
Peter Frampton

Getting Rid of Old Baggage

I have been in a downsizing mood lately - clutter is making me anxious, and I have been attacking it with a vigor and frenzy akin to that energy surge you get right before you go into labor. I put a set of luggage on Freecycle last week, nice stuff that I have not used in more than 5 years. It went right away. I felt pounds lighter!

As I was cleaning it off to get it ready to be picked up I pulled the baggage tape from the handle and was about to throw it away. But I stopped and held it in my hand. I don't know why. Then I looked at it. February 13, 2001. BWI - MSP. And I knew why I was holding it in my hand.

That was the day I returned home from Krista's funeral. 7 years ago.
I made that round trip dozens of times in the almost 3 years she was being treated for ovarian cancer. She was 14 when she was diagnosed - 17 when she died. I went to Minneapolis almost monthly to be with her during that time. She never had a remission - she never got to go home again.

I remember sitting by her bed early on. She was sleeping. And I was battling with god for an answer. A reason. WHY does a 14 year old get OVARIAN cancer? Why does she get any kind of cancer, let alone one that is supposed to be for old women! I never did get an answer. What I did receive after a much prayer and struggle was acceptance of god's will.

It may sound odd, but the visits with Krista were some of the most fun times I have ever had. My daughters and my cousin would often join me on my Krista visits. We laughed! And laughed! And laughed till our stomach's cramped; till we cried; and then laughed some more - again and again. We would play pranks on the hospital staff. We would have them rolling on the floor laughing. Her doctors were always shaking their heads in wry amusement at Krista's antics and her crazy Aunt Pattee. How could that insane woman have a Ph.D. in anything, I could hear them saying in their minds. We had slumber parties in her hospital room. Beauty salon days. Movie nights - popcorn and all. We overflowed the dishwasher and flooded the hospital hallways. We stole movies from the Ronald McDonald House to take with Krista for another hospital stay. We stole movies from the hospital to home with her to the Ronald McDonald House. There were more shopping trips to the Mall of America than I can count. We did wheelies with Krista in her wheelchair in parking lots.

We had ecstatic moments of hope. We firmly believed in miracles. We absolutely and without a doubt believed each new treatment would be the one that cured her. Vincristin, cisplatin, paclitaxel, radiation, surgery and more surgery, a bone marrow transplant, more cemo. She never had a remission.

And we cried more tears than a body should hold. Tears of fear and horror at the start. Tears of frustration as the process went on. Tears of anger when a new treatment did not work. Tears over the pain she was suffering. Tears over our fear of losing her. Tears of despair as the doctors began to run out of treatments. And finally, tears of relief and sorrow when she died. Relief that Krista was no long in pain. Of sorrow for our loss, for Krista and all the things she would never do.

We finally took Krista home to her beloved Ashland. It was cold beyond bitter. That gray which was a lack of color settled over everything. Gray as only February can be. February in Ashland, Wisconsin. On Lake Superior. Below zero, too cold to snow out. Everything was frozen solid. Including those of us who went to bury her. Numb, frozen, in a state of disbelief, suspended animation. Just for a little while. Her mom and I readied her body for the burial. We massaged her favorite lotion all over her scarred body. We dressed her. I made the funeral plans, bought the coffin, wrote the eulogy for the newspaper. Keep busy, just jeep busy.

We were kind and loving to everyone who came to the wake. We found ourselves, after a while, in a large circle of Krista's friends and their moms. And we began to tell Krista stories. And we began to laugh, hesitantly and quietly at first. And then with great relief and true joy at the funny stories, the memories, the short but meaningful life of that girl. We roared! It felt so good to let all that come out there in the lobby of the funeral home.

We had the funeral. The lid to her coffin was closed. It was so final. I wanted to scream NO! Instead, I read a story and told a story. Her girlfriends sang. Her minister comforted. We picked up her coffin. By the time we got to the church door she had more than a dozen pall bearers. No one wanted to let her go. The cemetery was cold-bleak-blustery, colorless and empty. There was a hole in the ground. We brought the coffin there. We stood and prayed. Tears froze on our faces. We left her there.

Krista is still with me today. I believe in the existence of what people call "ghosts." I prefer to think of them as spirits of people I loved. I can see Krista at times, hear her talking to me, feel her next to me. She even can make me laugh out loud! Especially when I am in the pajama section at Target! She is always urging me to buy her some new colorful flannel pajama pants - that is all she lived in her last year of life. And I am delighted to have Krista hang around. Her spirit is kind and funny and loving. She is saying "Remember me Aunt Pattee. Remember me."

JUST FOR TODAY

Just for TODAY I WILL:

Pray
Move
Breathe
Eat,and
I WILL NOT pick up.

These are my simple daily rules. So, why are they so hard to remember - except for the last one, that is. And if I can get these first 5 simple acts accomplished, then Just for Today I will:

Laugh
Relax
Talk
Listen
Ask for Help.

Be Honest
Be open-minded
Be willing
Make amends where needed, and
Do a joyful thing!

Just for Today!

Thinking About Robert

My brother Robert has been on my mind. He generally is. Which is a change from how it used to be with Robert. He was my goofy, odd, funny little brother; always getting into trouble but never meaning to do so. It just seemed that Robert was born suffering from a all-but-fatal case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was awkward, klutzy, and had the judgement capabilities of a frog. That is not an insult - I think frogs do pretty well making decisions relevant to their pond lives. It is just that Robert did not live in a pond. He lived in the world with the rest of us.

So Robert got into trouble right from the start, daily, inadvertently, without even trying! That never changed. And he also always got caught. My parents had a keen eye, ear, and sense of smell where Robert and his activities were concerned. They possessed an uncanny prescience about Robert.

As a result, Robert rarely - if ever - "got away" with anything! He even was blamed for things he could not possibly have done. No matter. He was a born scapegoat. Robert always lied about whatever incident. He was hard wired to immediately and always respond "I did not do it!" And one thing Robert could not do well was lie. He would fumble for words, look away, stutter, contort himself into Houdini-like shapes to avoid the blows that he knew were coming. And the whole time he was getting slapped, shoved, pushed, hit, he would keep protesting his innocence. He would repeat like a mantra, "I didn't do it."

Pretty soon, we all stopped listening to Robert because he became the child-who-lies. Everyone generalized his protests - those LIES - to everything Robert said. That became his persona. He was a liar, plain and simple! The family stopped expecting anything from Robert but for him to mess up and then lie. Robert was given a blessing and a curse. The blessing was that no one expected anything of him! He was freed from all of the normal childhood and teenage expectations and activities. He failed in school. He had no friends. He did not have any hobbies nor did he play a sport. He was not a reader, a writer, an artist. He did not get jobs delivering the newspaper or sweeping the grocery store. Nothing was expected of him. He was just Robert who lies.

The curse of this was that he never became anything. I do not mean that in a derogatory or demeaning way. He was a loving child of god, painfully ill-formed by nature and nurture. But he never matured; he never developed into his capabilities because no one thought he had any capabilities. He was not given affection, he was not enabled to develop self-esteem, he was not challenged to learn or to be successful. He just was left to be. Thus, upon reaching adulthood (in years, not in maturity), Robert was not equipped to handle the world. He had no skills, no social abilities. He was not trained to work or think. He was not raised to take care of himself. He was fed, clothed and sheltered - and ignored and derided.

Robert easily fell into the family disease at an early age. And it became the one thing he excelled at - alcoholism. He took to alcohol and drugs, immersing himself in the dreams that they gave him, the shelter they provided. Alcohol was his loving mother, his caring and proud father, his family, his friends, his successes in school, his major achievement in his life. And it became his life.

This was easy for Robert. His family had already "written him off" so the fact that he became a drunk and a bum at a young age was no surprise. And no concern either. It was just a natural extension of Robert who lies. And just as we negated and turned away from that child, so did we do the same to the adult.

I have so much to say about Robert - to Robert. My brother.

My brother who was murdered in December of 2003 in Eureka, CA. Once again, he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Drinking and drugging, homeless and wandering, as he usually was. His bones were found buried in a forest in February 2004. No identification or distinguishing physical features remained. Robert was listed as John Doe. How fitting.

We had put put a missing persons report on Robert in March of 2004. He had been out of contact since November and that was not like Robert - he always stayed in touch with my parents. I received a phone call from the County Coroner in Eureka and it shattered my soul. The Coroner said they had a John Doe in the morgue who might be my brother. But there was really no good way to positively ID him other than doing a DNA match. So local police came and swabbed my cheek and my mother's cheek. Then we waited. Robert had suddenly gained a status that he never had in life. I thought about him constantly. I worried, I was fearful, anxious. I wanted to know who was in the morgue and I never wanted to find out.

In February 2004, the Coroner called me. The DNA was a match. We had found Robert. He was 52 years old. He was penniless, homeless. He never married or had a family. He was a drunk. A bum There were more than 30 stab wounds on his body. He did not die easy There was nothing kind and loving about Robert's death.  Why should it be any different than his life.

5. His Eminence – The Baby Boy Fletcher

THE ALL NEW MOSTLY TRUE ADVENTURES OF BABY BOY FLETCHER

With astonishing ease, Baby Boy Fletcher settled into his new life at home in Parkville. He seemed pleased with his surroundings and the fact that his mom & dad waited on him hand and foot was also not to be sneered at. Mostly he slept. And he was quite good at it – except when he wasn’t, which, was most of the time! He had a persnickety colic that created major gurgles and disturbances in his GI tract and the BBF found this cause to fuss, cry, twist, and shout. His parents, in spite of their super powers-which were only to be used for freedom and justice to protect and save the good and the innocent-could do nothing! They began to look wan, drawn, outright droopy. They got cranky.

There were nights when the BBF did not give them a moment of rest. His parents tried all the usual and already-established as “never works” remedies. They swaddled; they burped; they walked him; they rocked him; they took him for car rides; they prayed.

Meanwhile, the BBF thrived! By the time he was 4 months old he weighed 15 pounds! He had tripled his weight – a portent of things to come. A literal instantiation of his future prowess. 15 pounds. Heavier than a bag of sugar or potatoes. Heavier than a case of beer. Heavier than Merriam-Webster’s dictionary, a weighty tome indeed! The BBF was having an impact on his surroundings.

People came from far and wide to admire him; bill and coo; exclaim with delight a at his roundness, creases, beautiful blue-gray eyes. They came from Elgin, Syracuse, Rockford, Ithaca, Rochester, Columbia, bearing gifts as did the Magi.

It was the Christmas season after all.

A sweet newborn baby,
A crib for a bed,
The Baby Boy Fletcher
Lay down his sweet head.
The cats were meowing
The baby awakes,
But Baby Boy Fletcher no crying he makes (for once).
I love you dear baby
Dear gift of my heart,
You’re holy and precious
And n’er shall we part.

To be sung to the tune of "Away in a Manger"

Incredulous Maybe?

Too extraordinary and improbable to be believed! And for only $119.00 !!


I was perusing a cosmetics catalog and came across a NEW PRODUCT which created instant mirth! Tummy Flattening Gel - WOW - can you believe it? Would we all (or most) not love to have some of this!
It is a "topical slimming concentrate" which is touted as being "a Breakthrough Slimming Gel that works." And I am tall, thin and blond.

The product purportedly will make one's tummy look flatter and more well-defined - and you don't have to exert any more effort than rubbing the stuff on your tummy. No sit ups, ab machines, dieting.

AND - this wonder gel also claims to "reduce the appearance of bulging pockets of unsightly fat wherever they pop up." Gotta love it. It is so embarrassing when those bulging pockets of fat start popping up when I am in public. It will be great to just rub on some of this gel and get rid of them before anyone notices. I feel so much better now. Relieved to not have to worry about that one anymore.

So, call me a skeptic but, REALLY! If a gel could reduce my tummy I would buy it in a minute - even if it does cost $119.00. I would by a case of it to keep on hand for the pop-up bulges as well. But something just does not seem right here...is it that it might be irrational to expect a gel to do such wondrous and miraculous things when diet and exertion, targeted exercise and workouts cannot? Don't get me wrong. I do believe in miracles. I just do not believe in something for nothing - except $119.00.