When we sold our home a little over a year ago, cancer wasn't in the plans. Of course cancer is not the kind of thing anyone plans on. But this was especially bad timing, getting the news just days after selling the house. It would have been devastating, except that we could feel the Lord's hand in it all.
So the house we moved to was not intended to be permanent. Just a place to re-group and heal. And we felt the Lord guide us, so that was good.
And while it's done the job nicely, we've been left in a bit of a quandary. It has felt like time to move on for a few months now, but the thought of packing up and moving again is just way too overwhelming.
So I have a plan.
And it's a good one.
You see, Friday morning we are going to wake up, strip down the beds, and proceed to do a complete home makeover. Each and every room, including the kitchen and the bathrooms, are going to be totally remodeled and updated, on that very day! Even the yard! Even the neighborhood! Every last detail will be new (to us and least). Well, except for the neighborhood thing. That will be old, as in our old one. It's going to be the easiest large-scale remodel in the history of the planet. By the end of the weekend the entire house will be redone.
I realize this might sound suspiciously like a move. But as I said, I can't even think about that.
But a remodel? One that only takes a weekend? One that plants me in the same neighborhood as a whole bunch of my favorite people? Yeah, I can totally do that.
It's gonna be a good weekend.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Frump Girl...
Other contenders for titles to this entry: Sweatin' to the Oldies, Verklempt, Cleavage Envy, Wardrobe Problems or (drum roll) My Brain on Drugs. Obviously this has the potential to be a rambling post. But it all makes sense in my brain (which I have to warn you is on drugs), so we'll see how it goes.
First, I have to say that I would blog about how my Whitney had surgery last week. Wisdom teeth, which is nothing to get excited about, except that it's the fourth patient to recuperate in our living room lounge chair in two months time.
I would also tell the story about my Jen, who was on her way to pick up Whitney for the surgery when she hit a patch of black ice while trying to avoid a stupid car that ran a red light, and then spun out of control into oncoming traffic but miraculously avoided all of them and hit the barricade on the far-side of the road, totaling her car; but that she and the baby are just fine.
This is the same girl who miraculously came through with just bumps and bruises after a near-fatal four-wheeling accident this summer; and ended up in a coma after surgery a couple of years ago. I would tell all about that, but it's almost too much to believe. I mean, honestly, who could have that many near-miss events in one family in such a short amount of time? So I'm not going to say a word about any of it.
I will talk about how I watched My Big Fat Greek Wedding over the holidays. (How's that for a light-hearted change of subject?) If you've never seen it, you just have to, like right now. And then watch it again, and again, until you've seen it enough times that you laugh out loud just BEFORE the funny scenes, like when the dad is about to pull out a bottle of Windex. Good times. Anyway, there's one scene where the heroine is explaining that she used be "Frump Girl". "It was a stage I was in," she says. "Until now."
I'll get back to that in a minute. But first there's my wardrobe problems. This is nothing new. The last year has been a challenge for my wardrobe, to put it mildly. A couple months ago I went to Old Navy and bought myself half a dozen extra large, long-sleeve scoop neck shirts that do the trick for hiding what I don't want to be seen and allowing extra room for the things that need it. It was a slick solution. But then two things happened.
First was the drugs. I won't name them. Partly because I can't ever remember the names, and partly in case some poor soul does a search for them by name and find themselves here expecting accurate information. But in my very layman's understanding, I was put on two drugs intended to shut down all of my hormones, since my cancer thinks hormones are like some kind of candy.
One of the drugs shuts my ovaries down, like you'd expect. But apparently the brain produces some hormones as well, so the other goes there and whispers sweet nothings that tell it to stop producing hormones. Unfortunately, this confuses the brain tremendously. In fact, it's so messed up that it can't even tell if I've had enough to eat. As if turning down that big piece of cheesecake with chocolate sauce isn't hard enough when you know you're full. But when you think you're hungry? Forget about it. My hips didn't stand a chance. Ten pounds before I could blink.
The other problem was my surgery. I've been calling it reconstructive, but it was actually more like deconstructive. Basically they just took out the expanders and laid down the muscle, preparing me for real reconstruction in a few months. Let me be clear, I am not complaining. I'm more than happy to get rid of those awful coconuts. But the result is...well...disturbing. Not just flat, but concave, especially on the side with radiation. Think of a hundred-year-old man eating a lemon and you have a pretty good idea. And the wardrobe restrictions. Well, let's just say those scoop necks aren't working for me any more.
But I'm not so excited about buying a bunch of new clothes to fit this latest round of odd body shape, especially since it'll probably be totally different in a few months. Which brings me to the word Verklempt, which I learned is Yiddish for great amounts of emotion, in case you were wondering.
And it also brings me to the gym. Obviously. I haven't been a regular for the last year, but decided that now is the time. Obviously. So I put on what I usually wear for exercising: my sweats. Okay, so I might also wear them for relaxing, and cooking, and shopping and any time I want to be comfortable. Which is always. They are, after all, the only thing I can put on without worrying about all the things I have to worry about. So I love them.
But then I was at the gym, spinning on a stationary bike, and the words "Frump girl, frump girl" started in my head. Like a chant. "Frump girl, frump girl, frump girl, frump." I was, after all, surrounded by a serious amount of skinny women with tight clothes and cleavage. Seriousy tight. Serious cleavage. And me in my baggy, oddly-shaped sweats. Frump girl. Frump girl.
I've found myself in various stages of frump in the past, usually corresponding to the births of my babies. But I've also been a far cry from Frump Girl at times. Specifically in high school, when legend has it (my husband's legend) that I spent four hours a day styling my Farrah Fawcett hair. Truth is that was only for dates. It was really closer to an hour.
But of all my stages, I've never felt this far gone. This frumpy. I tell myself every day to be patient. In fact that's my new battle cry: patience, patience, patience. And while I'm waiting patiently for my veluptuous new body to emerge from this mess, I think I'll have some ice cream. Cause I'm starving. Just ask my brain.
First, I have to say that I would blog about how my Whitney had surgery last week. Wisdom teeth, which is nothing to get excited about, except that it's the fourth patient to recuperate in our living room lounge chair in two months time.
I would also tell the story about my Jen, who was on her way to pick up Whitney for the surgery when she hit a patch of black ice while trying to avoid a stupid car that ran a red light, and then spun out of control into oncoming traffic but miraculously avoided all of them and hit the barricade on the far-side of the road, totaling her car; but that she and the baby are just fine.
This is the same girl who miraculously came through with just bumps and bruises after a near-fatal four-wheeling accident this summer; and ended up in a coma after surgery a couple of years ago. I would tell all about that, but it's almost too much to believe. I mean, honestly, who could have that many near-miss events in one family in such a short amount of time? So I'm not going to say a word about any of it.
I will talk about how I watched My Big Fat Greek Wedding over the holidays. (How's that for a light-hearted change of subject?) If you've never seen it, you just have to, like right now. And then watch it again, and again, until you've seen it enough times that you laugh out loud just BEFORE the funny scenes, like when the dad is about to pull out a bottle of Windex. Good times. Anyway, there's one scene where the heroine is explaining that she used be "Frump Girl". "It was a stage I was in," she says. "Until now."
I'll get back to that in a minute. But first there's my wardrobe problems. This is nothing new. The last year has been a challenge for my wardrobe, to put it mildly. A couple months ago I went to Old Navy and bought myself half a dozen extra large, long-sleeve scoop neck shirts that do the trick for hiding what I don't want to be seen and allowing extra room for the things that need it. It was a slick solution. But then two things happened.
First was the drugs. I won't name them. Partly because I can't ever remember the names, and partly in case some poor soul does a search for them by name and find themselves here expecting accurate information. But in my very layman's understanding, I was put on two drugs intended to shut down all of my hormones, since my cancer thinks hormones are like some kind of candy.
One of the drugs shuts my ovaries down, like you'd expect. But apparently the brain produces some hormones as well, so the other goes there and whispers sweet nothings that tell it to stop producing hormones. Unfortunately, this confuses the brain tremendously. In fact, it's so messed up that it can't even tell if I've had enough to eat. As if turning down that big piece of cheesecake with chocolate sauce isn't hard enough when you know you're full. But when you think you're hungry? Forget about it. My hips didn't stand a chance. Ten pounds before I could blink.
The other problem was my surgery. I've been calling it reconstructive, but it was actually more like deconstructive. Basically they just took out the expanders and laid down the muscle, preparing me for real reconstruction in a few months. Let me be clear, I am not complaining. I'm more than happy to get rid of those awful coconuts. But the result is...well...disturbing. Not just flat, but concave, especially on the side with radiation. Think of a hundred-year-old man eating a lemon and you have a pretty good idea. And the wardrobe restrictions. Well, let's just say those scoop necks aren't working for me any more.
But I'm not so excited about buying a bunch of new clothes to fit this latest round of odd body shape, especially since it'll probably be totally different in a few months. Which brings me to the word Verklempt, which I learned is Yiddish for great amounts of emotion, in case you were wondering.
And it also brings me to the gym. Obviously. I haven't been a regular for the last year, but decided that now is the time. Obviously. So I put on what I usually wear for exercising: my sweats. Okay, so I might also wear them for relaxing, and cooking, and shopping and any time I want to be comfortable. Which is always. They are, after all, the only thing I can put on without worrying about all the things I have to worry about. So I love them.
But then I was at the gym, spinning on a stationary bike, and the words "Frump girl, frump girl" started in my head. Like a chant. "Frump girl, frump girl, frump girl, frump." I was, after all, surrounded by a serious amount of skinny women with tight clothes and cleavage. Seriousy tight. Serious cleavage. And me in my baggy, oddly-shaped sweats. Frump girl. Frump girl.
I've found myself in various stages of frump in the past, usually corresponding to the births of my babies. But I've also been a far cry from Frump Girl at times. Specifically in high school, when legend has it (my husband's legend) that I spent four hours a day styling my Farrah Fawcett hair. Truth is that was only for dates. It was really closer to an hour.
But of all my stages, I've never felt this far gone. This frumpy. I tell myself every day to be patient. In fact that's my new battle cry: patience, patience, patience. And while I'm waiting patiently for my veluptuous new body to emerge from this mess, I think I'll have some ice cream. Cause I'm starving. Just ask my brain.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
A Christmas Wish to Friends and Family
As the hymn says, "Now the day is over, night is drawing nigh..."
It's not exactly night right now, but the holiday is definitely winding down. The presents are unwrapped; the ham, potatoes and yams are in the oven; wrapping paper and bows are strewn across the house; and the kids are all occupied with either naps or their Christmas treasures.
It's a good feeling.
I admit that there were moments leading up to this day that I doubted I could pull it off, what with two surgeries in the last two weeks. And in fact some traditions had to be put aside. The family picture that was supposed to grace our Christmas cards was scheduled to be taken the day Natalie planted her face into a tree. Various new ideas for a clever card never turned into a finished product. Same with gifts for friends and coworkers.
I did manage to purchase and wrap enough toys for under the tree to keep the kids happy, and bake enough goodies to keep their bellies full. That in itself is a small miracle. But over the last couple of days my mind has repeatedly gone to the greetings I didn't send; and the people I love who didn't receive them.
And so I'd like to take a moment before setting the table and cleaning up that gift wrapping to send a wish to you all, I just hope I can put my thoughts into proper words.
I'm sure you've heard the wish that every day could be Christmas. That's not the wish I have for you--but it begins the explanation. I know this will sound strange, but in one way this past year has been like Christmas every day. Not that there's anything festive about cancer treatment. Or something I'd wish to do every day. But I don't think a day has passed in the last year that I haven't been the recipient of at least one act of kindness.
Some days I'm overwhelmed by the number and amount of good things that have been done for my benefit: tangible gifts like jewelry, flowers, home decor, and of course food. Lot's and lot's of comfort food. Then there's the messages--by phone, by mail, by foot, by text, by email, by Facebook they come; offering encouragement and love. And I can't forget the prayers. I could never forget the prayers.
I remember one friend apologizing for not calling me when she got the news. "I didn't know what to say," she said. But then she continued, "And so I just prayed."
"You did exactly the right thing," I told her. And it was true. I can't explain the feeling of knowing that hundreds of prayers are going up to the heavens on your behalf. But it truly buoys you up at a time that you know you should feel your very lowest, but instead it feels as though the hands of God are literally cradling you.
And so, with that explanation, this is what I wish for you, my friend: I wish that each of you would take a moment this season to realize and appreciate your magnificence. Yes, yours--not your children's or your spouses or your neighbor's, but yours. And I'm talking about the person you are today--not the one you hope to become after you figure out how to organize your time or lose a few pounds or stop getting mad at the kids. That person might be fabulous too, but the person you are on this day is truly amazing.
I can say this with assurance because I have witnessed and felt your truly caring nature. I know from experience that you carry the light of Christ within you. You are not only born in the image of God, but you are a beautiful emulation of Him. Your love and concern for your fellow man is as tangible as the gifts given on Christmas day.
I can never say thank you enough to those who have been helpful to me throughout the course of my treatment. It boggles my mind to even think about it. And maybe after Christmas I'll get around to sending out a proper greeting. In the meantime, this wish will have to do.
Merry Christmas, my dear friends! And Happy New Year!
It's not exactly night right now, but the holiday is definitely winding down. The presents are unwrapped; the ham, potatoes and yams are in the oven; wrapping paper and bows are strewn across the house; and the kids are all occupied with either naps or their Christmas treasures.
It's a good feeling.
I admit that there were moments leading up to this day that I doubted I could pull it off, what with two surgeries in the last two weeks. And in fact some traditions had to be put aside. The family picture that was supposed to grace our Christmas cards was scheduled to be taken the day Natalie planted her face into a tree. Various new ideas for a clever card never turned into a finished product. Same with gifts for friends and coworkers.
I did manage to purchase and wrap enough toys for under the tree to keep the kids happy, and bake enough goodies to keep their bellies full. That in itself is a small miracle. But over the last couple of days my mind has repeatedly gone to the greetings I didn't send; and the people I love who didn't receive them.
And so I'd like to take a moment before setting the table and cleaning up that gift wrapping to send a wish to you all, I just hope I can put my thoughts into proper words.
I'm sure you've heard the wish that every day could be Christmas. That's not the wish I have for you--but it begins the explanation. I know this will sound strange, but in one way this past year has been like Christmas every day. Not that there's anything festive about cancer treatment. Or something I'd wish to do every day. But I don't think a day has passed in the last year that I haven't been the recipient of at least one act of kindness.
Some days I'm overwhelmed by the number and amount of good things that have been done for my benefit: tangible gifts like jewelry, flowers, home decor, and of course food. Lot's and lot's of comfort food. Then there's the messages--by phone, by mail, by foot, by text, by email, by Facebook they come; offering encouragement and love. And I can't forget the prayers. I could never forget the prayers.
I remember one friend apologizing for not calling me when she got the news. "I didn't know what to say," she said. But then she continued, "And so I just prayed."
"You did exactly the right thing," I told her. And it was true. I can't explain the feeling of knowing that hundreds of prayers are going up to the heavens on your behalf. But it truly buoys you up at a time that you know you should feel your very lowest, but instead it feels as though the hands of God are literally cradling you.
And so, with that explanation, this is what I wish for you, my friend: I wish that each of you would take a moment this season to realize and appreciate your magnificence. Yes, yours--not your children's or your spouses or your neighbor's, but yours. And I'm talking about the person you are today--not the one you hope to become after you figure out how to organize your time or lose a few pounds or stop getting mad at the kids. That person might be fabulous too, but the person you are on this day is truly amazing.
I can say this with assurance because I have witnessed and felt your truly caring nature. I know from experience that you carry the light of Christ within you. You are not only born in the image of God, but you are a beautiful emulation of Him. Your love and concern for your fellow man is as tangible as the gifts given on Christmas day.
I can never say thank you enough to those who have been helpful to me throughout the course of my treatment. It boggles my mind to even think about it. And maybe after Christmas I'll get around to sending out a proper greeting. In the meantime, this wish will have to do.
Merry Christmas, my dear friends! And Happy New Year!
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Speaking of counting
I am not one to shy away from confessing my age. At least not since my scare with heart failure while still in my twenties. But now...well let's just say I'll be doing the happy dance on each of my birthdays. One of which happens to be today. Yes that's right. My 48th. Happy happy 48th.
And while I need to go join the family celebration, I want to quickly share my philosophy.
First, when it comes to birthdays in general, they are very good things. Waaaay better than no birthdays. I have known way too many people who no longer have birthdays, and I'm not voting for that plan.
Second, there's this whole deal of pretending you're younger than you really are. Frankly, I don't get it. If I were tell someone I was, say, 29; chances are good they'd either flat out know I was lying, or wonder what the heck happened to me. SHE's 29? Are you kidding me? She look's HORRIBLE!
But if I tell them my real age, there's a chance they'll think I look a lot older than that, but if that's the case, just imagine what they'd think if I told them I was 29? Odds are better, however, that they'll think I'm holding up pretty well for someone of my advanced years, especially one who's been through the ringer. (Besides who but a 48-year-old would even think of the term ringer?)
In sum, I'd much rather have folks think I've held up well than wonder what the heck happened to me, so for that reason I always tell the truth about my age and take my chances.
I guess I'm weird, but that's what I think.
And while I need to go join the family celebration, I want to quickly share my philosophy.
First, when it comes to birthdays in general, they are very good things. Waaaay better than no birthdays. I have known way too many people who no longer have birthdays, and I'm not voting for that plan.
Second, there's this whole deal of pretending you're younger than you really are. Frankly, I don't get it. If I were tell someone I was, say, 29; chances are good they'd either flat out know I was lying, or wonder what the heck happened to me. SHE's 29? Are you kidding me? She look's HORRIBLE!
But if I tell them my real age, there's a chance they'll think I look a lot older than that, but if that's the case, just imagine what they'd think if I told them I was 29? Odds are better, however, that they'll think I'm holding up pretty well for someone of my advanced years, especially one who's been through the ringer. (Besides who but a 48-year-old would even think of the term ringer?)
In sum, I'd much rather have folks think I've held up well than wonder what the heck happened to me, so for that reason I always tell the truth about my age and take my chances.
I guess I'm weird, but that's what I think.
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