Tag Archives: life

Two Bitches – Fear and Panic

Cancer, mental health, On Life
Photo credit: darkbird77

“I expect great results.” The charming and jovial doctor sat across from us and smiled. “Everyone I have treated in your shoes has responded positively.”

“And how long have you been a doctor?” My husband smiled sheepishly but also, yes, let’s get a read on the extent of “everybody.” Good question, Babe.

The doctor looked at his watch pensively and replied, “I think like two weeks?”

He was kidding. I’m pretty sure he was kidding. We all laughed so I’m assuming…High fives all around ended the appointment and more appointments were scheduled. Just another path to walk. No big deal. Been there done that.

I walked into the prep room of the hospital a couple weeks later. The quick routine procedure spiraled unannounced into a panic attack and hit me square in the chest in a split second. The last time I was in a room like this, “a routine procedure” left me in the oncology ward for five days.

“This isn’t that!!” I internally shouted at myself trying to get a grip while I donned the “gown”, attempting to redirect my focus to the directions I had been given.

(Side note, can we please rename the “hospital gown”? The crepe like square of cloth reminiscent of an old flour sack, with random holes and too many occupants to count does not deserve to be called a “gown”. The word “gown” should be proceeded by adjectives like “inaugural” or “beaded”. Also, I may have had a bit of fun with “”. One must entertain oneself.)

Anyway, I surrendered my clothing and dignity and the nurse returned to take my blood pressure. It was high. No kidding! The world had turned to a swirling mass of chaos! Your lucky I’m not a giant pile of goo right now!

I kept trying to take a deep breath and fight back the torrent of emotion. She said she would come back in a few minutes to retake my blood pressure. I nodded and wiped my eyes.

“Get a grip, Rebecca!” I yelled internally again. David handed me a tissue, rubbed my back, and I climbed onto the gurney (not a bed – see above discourse on the word gown). I shut my eyes and kept trying to breathe. For an autonomous action, it’s amazing how difficult breathing can be at times.

Life leaves no one unscathed. At some point, we all find ourselves in the metaphorical forest, as the sun sets, and enveloping darkness and strange threatening sounds push in and isolate us.

I’m in the forest. I can’t run. And Fear, smelling my indecision like a shark smells chum, runs at me. A chill rises from the damp mossy ground, adding an eerie mist. I try to reason with her. “Hey Fear, listen, it’s going to be okay. This isn’t going to be a big deal. Of course I’m fearful. Who wouldn’t be? But, you can go now, and uh, thanks for stopping by.”

The vapor swells, dancing at my feet, and blocking any view of the ground where I’m standing. I spin around looking for any way out, a tiny vantage point into the trees, some faint hint at a direction to run. The expanding fog rises and swirls around me, pulling in the smells of pine and damp earth. The shock of the cool heady vapor hitting my nostrils stings and announces Fear’s twin sister Panic has heard the thudding of my heart like a drum calling soldiers to battle.

For the last few weeks, I have attempted to fight Fear and Panic, pulling out as many strategies as I can muster. The plan was to get all the facts then start fighting the disease, understanding fully the outcome looks positive. I may have underestimated my foes.

Fear and Panic are ruthless bitches. I’ve delude myself into thinking there’s an ounce of humanity within them – or that their reign of terror would somehow motivate me. When I was a teacher, I used to remind my students, “Fear is a powerful motivator.” But now I wonder. Remember the scene in the movie where the deeply frightened teenagers being chased through the woods run as fast as they can into the barn? Fear “motivated” them, and how does that turn out? Fear just made them run into the next chapter of doom.

I think fear pushes us and causes us to move, to attempt to run away, because she loves a good hunt. Her and her sister are like tigresses who isolate the weak and wounded, setting up a chase where the outcome is nearly guaranteed. But I’m not sure that’s the same thing as motivation. It’s just movement. It feels like motivation should have an association with something positive, maybe?

My forest is cancer. It’s back, and I start chemo soon. Fear is on me like an angry swarm of bees and I can hear Panic breathing heavy in anticipation of her quarry. Mantras like, “It’s fine”, and “No big deal” run through my head at frequent intervals. Turns out, Fear and Panic chew trite platitudes like bubble gum. They chew them up and spit them in my face, causing me to retch.

I started fumbling around in old files on my computer looking for something productive to do and keep Fear and Panic at bay. I found this gem in an old blog post I wrote and probably never posted, “But gratitude is always the fruit of correctly altered perspective.” Seriously? I wrote that?

Correctly altered perspective. Hmmm. Currently, my perspective is dictated by those two bitches, Fear and Panic. So, what would happen if I invite Perspective? “Come on over Perspective. Meet my nemesises…nemesi?” Give me a sec…nemeses. “Come on over Perspective and meet my nemeses. You can take a swing at these two and I’ll take a breather.”

Turns out, Perspective is a bit skittish and fragile. She wants to crawl into my lap. So, in the middle of the fray, I sit in the dirt, cross my legs, and close my eyes. Fear, sensing I’m changing the rules of the fight, begins to scream. I hear her and instead of the continued futile attempt to ignore her, I listen. All this time she’s been whispering nonsense, but I was too afraid to register the words. This entire time Fear was a complete idiot? Why did I listen?

Perspective brings me back. She times her breathing to mine and I being to calm down. She then rises above me in an orb of light like Glenda the Good Witch. A hint of illumination reveals she is not alone. She has brought her friends – Hope, Faith, Love, Joy, and Peace. They stand in the blurred edge between light and shadow, incandescent and translucent like a rainbow. Fear shrieks. She wants me to keep wrestling with her, engaging her, and focusing on her.

Perspective laughs and her glow brightens as I steady my gaze on her beautiful gown (see what I did there? That’s a proper use of the word). It reflects tender memories where Hope, and Faith, and Joy, and Love, and Peace have visited. My new born child placed on my heaving chest until our breathing falls into sync and we both drift into a blissful rest. A student’s eyes alight, find mine, and I see a whole new world of comprehension has opened up to them. And the time I stood on the parapet of a broken and ancient castle and heard history whisper to me in the wind. Memories play like an old home movie reel, one after the other.

Perspective rises with each memory, supported and heightened by the presence of her allies.

I can no longer hear Fear or Panic.

A warmth falls across me, as if the sun has just burst through the clouds – the humbling realization and recognition of all the amazing and glorious moments. And then faces fill the screen – my husband, my children, friends – a cloud of witnesses who surround me with love and support – the amazing people who share life with me.

Perspective has done her thing and made way for Gratitude.

Lesson learned…perhaps again. As I said before, apparently like 15 years ago, Gratitude is always the fruit of correctly altered Perspective.

I have a couple of questions for you:

  1. Any thoughts on a new name for a “hospital gown?” Seriously, maybe we can help make the world a better place.
  2. How do you invite Perspective? … Prayer? Meditation? Exercise?

Shoot me a response in the comments! I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Bells, Sheep and Sunsets

On Life, , , , ,

the hills of umbria

We have been home from Europe for almost a month. It is beginning to feel like a dream and that scares me. I seldom dream. And even less often, I remember what I dream. So some of the next blogs are going to be the retelling of a dream. In hopes that I don’t forget.

I wish I could tell you there will be some order or rhyme. A chronological progression through England, Italy, and France. It’s not going to be that. Think of it more like, “Where in the World is…?”

And our first stop is Italy…

The ability to be in more than one place at a time is not a new wish. Who can forget Dolly?

Screen Shot 2013-07-31 at 3.31.12 PM

The scientific introduction to cloning. And in the same year, 1996, Michael Keaton did a movie called Multiplicity. He cloned himself and set out to divide and conquer. (Pun intended.) We are curious to know if we can live outside ourselves, our physical bodies.

I’ve told my children on several occasions that I cannot be in two places at once. Now I am realizing that is not entirely true. Though we cannot create physical clones of ourselves (to which my husband shouts “Hallelujah”) we do have an innate ability to be in two places at once.

 

Casa La Ripe

That’s me in Italy. It represents a piece of me that is still there.

Every now and then, my mind wanders to noon, outside the little village of Poggio Aquilone. The bells from the ancient rock church propped on the edge of the hill echo through the lush valley. Metal hits metal and reminds those within a large radius that the day is steadily moving on. An invitation to pause and listen. To be still and let the twelve chimes surround and envelope.

A sermon in rich tones.

“Today is all you have. There will never be another day like today.”

I got home and realized I had left behind a piece of me. Would I learn to compensate? Would I pine away and long for wholeness again? Would I even be able to find the pieces should I return to those places?

But Europe didn’t take anything from me. It was an exchange. I left part of me there and made room to bring something of Europe home with me.

I miss the church bells. The day doesn’t seem as sacred without them. But I look at the stark hills across the valley. The sun is setting. It radiates through the clouds and paints the sky a myriad of colors I cannot even name. Something stirs. And I am reminded again.

 “Today is all I have. There will never be another day like today.”

I close my eyes and visit the little village on the hill in the heart of Italy. And in the quietness of the Nevada desert, I hear the bells chime.

 

Two Sides

On Life, , , , , , , , ,

The two faces of theater.

At some point or other, we all experience change. But change wears many masks. Like the two faces of the theatre.

Comedy and tragedy.

There’s the category we call good. Falling in love. Winning the lottery. And then there’s the bad. Sickness. Losing money in the stock market. We grow up believing that the two are juxtaposed to each other. One can cause spontaneous fits of laughter and good cheer. But seldom does the side we call “bad” cause bursts of the giggles.

Comedy and tragedy.

Two sides to the coin we call life. There are good days and there are bad days. And I for one, have learned not to cheat tragedy out of it’s just rewards. When I’m down, I feel it only right to be very much down.

I can remember the stereotype super hero who laughs in the face of danger. So what does it look like to laugh in the face of tragedy? It sounds a bit sacrilegious.

But I have experienced such irreverence. Only a few days ago, my mother-in-law had a stroke. And in the midst of a high-stress, potentially tragic moment, laughter could be heard emanating through the thin veil of her ICU cubicle. And on more than one occasion.

Comedy meets tragedy.

At first I thought it just a coping mechanism. And perhaps that’s part of it. But as I watched and listened, I realized it was deeper than that. A room full of people, who love each other, did what came naturally. The conversation did not change because of the surroundings.

And as the days unfolded, the jokes kept coming. The doctor came in to check and asked my mother-in-law to open her eyes. She had been very groggy and dizzy and didn’t want to. The first time she ignored the request. The second time he asked she responded, “I’m paying a lot of money for this.” And the room broke out in chuckles.

Laugher didn’t change the circumstance. She still had a stroke. But in the last few days I have learned a valuable lesson. The greatest tragedy is the loss of levity. Having a stroke isn’t funny. But the ability to find some small piece of humor in the midst of calamity makes the darkness feel not so oppressive. It’s like taking the reins of a run-away horse.

We cannot control our circumstances but we can control how we respond.

And maybe it comes down to Mary Poppins.

A little bit of sugar  helps the medicine go down. 

 

 

 

The Invisible Blue Line

On Law Enforcement, , , ,

There isn’t a gold star pinned to my chest or a gun at my hip. I don’t carry handcuffs with me (although I have thought about it. Having three kids and all.) No one has ever died in my arms. I have never had to pick up a detached limb off the freeway.

But, I am part of the thin blue line.

The invisible part.

I am proud of my husband and the career he chose. He demonstrates honor and courage and compassion. But it’s not just him. Being married to a first responder means that I am called to demonstrate the same.

I am part of the thin blue line.

The invisible part.

I listen to stories. Comedic and tragic. I wipe tears and return smiles. I am a confidant, a cheerleader and a counselor. A partner.

I am part of the thin blue line.

The invisible part.

I don’t wear the uniform and I don’t see what he sees. But I am not numb to what he feels. The burden of the fatal he dealt with is shared. I’m not pretending to have experienced it. Not in entirety. But I do feel it.

I am part of the thin blue line.

The invisible part.

In a few weeks, my husband steps away from the thin blue line. But one cannot escape thirty years of experience. It is impossible to step away from the memories and the events. Those are the things that define him. He will still be courageous and full of honor and compassion. It has never just been about the job. Regardless of the uniform he wears or the title he carries, those are all parts of who he is. Parts that make up the whole.

And what will I do? I will continue to listen. To wipe tears and share smiles. I look forward to still being a confidant, a cheerleader, and a counselor.

I will always be a partner.

He will no longer be a police officer. The uniform will be retired. But the thin blue line cannot be erased fromour history or from our hearts. It will forever be a part of who we are. Only it will now be…

the invisible part.

 

The “R” Word

On Life, , , , , ,

There are many words over the course of a lifetime that are monumental.

Marriage.

Children.

Moving.

I’ve done all of those. Some more than once. And true to form, each time was monumental. My life changed forever.

I remember.

Right after I graduated from high school, I chose to live in Central America for nine months. (Long story.)

“You will never be the same.” Several adults said to me before I left. They would look beyond me. A far off expression in their eyes. Like they could see into my future. Or maybe they were looking into their past. Either way, it creeped me out a little and I grew tired of hearing it.

I remember.

I resigned myself to a smile and nod in response. What does one say to that? It sounded more like a sentencing of sorts than “Bon voyage and God-speed.” I dismissed it. (Eighteen year olds are extremely gifted in that regard.)

And I left. Nine months later, I came home. A different person. A gestational period of change. I grew up, slightly. I burnt rice, horribly. I gained weight, understandably. And I changed, unavoidably.

I could not be the same. Or at least, I could no longer view the world the way I had before. I lived with children who suffered from Malaria and gun-shot wounds. Men and women in their thirties who looked twice their age. The ravages of survival etched in the many lines on their faces.

I remember.

That was a long time ago. I’ve married, had children, moved. More people are added to my world. A spouse, a child, a neighbor.

And each time, I’m changed.

I remember.

And now? Now, we are on the verge of another monumental word.

Retirement.

My husband is ending a career in law enforcement. We are moving. Saying good-bye. Bon voyage. And I have to remember the past to gain the strength to look toward the future.

Today especially has been stressful. So many unknowns. Will everything work out with the house? Will it close escrow in time? Can I survive living forty minutes from Starbucks? What will our lives look like?

Unanswerable questions that swirl around in my mind like a storm, attempting to destroy whatever it touches.

So, I remember. Monumental has come and gone. I’m still standing. And not alone. A spouse, children, friends, neighbors, colleagues. Familiar faces cross my mind and touch my heart.

I’ll never be the same.

And I remember. 

Decisions, decisions, decisions

On Faith, On Life, ,

This is an actual sign in the middle of Nevada.

My husband stumbled upon this photo that he took on one of our camping trips. He suggested I write a blog post on it.

“Yeah. That’d be cool.” Feigned enthusiasm.

“You could write about choices,” he says.

“Yeah. That’d be cool.” More feigned enthusiasm. In my head, I’m thinking something else.

Choices? I don’t want to write about choices. Acknowledging choices means having to make them. And I don’t want to. (Whine and stomp added for effect.) My natural tendency is to set up camp in front of the sign. Indecision begging me not to commit. To cling to the hope that I don’t have to chose.

However, upon embarking on this blogging journey, I committed to embracing it. I chose to write on life, faith and writing. And since I didn’t specify whose life, that leaves my life by default. Blah.

So fine. Choices it is.

“This way” or “that way?”

It didn’t take long for me to recognize what choice I am currently facing. In a nutshell, I am forced to chose what I will do while I am waiting. My agent recently submitted a proposal for a novel I wrote. And I’m waiting. I’d like to think I’m waiting for a book deal. Then reality sets in and I realize I’m probably waiting for numerous rejection letters.

When I’m waiting for my children while they are at piano lessons, I read a book. When I am waiting at the grocery store, I pretend not to read the magazine bylines. When I am waiting for the lasagna to cook, I check Facebook. But this waiting, this is different. I’m not waiting for an hour. I could be waiting for months. Life must continue in that interim.

What will I chose to do while I wait? And the two choices appear like a neon sign in the arid dessert.

This way or that way.

On the one hand, or this way, I can choose to be content. I can chose to live in the moment. To lay down the outcome and trust. To recognize, book deal or no book deal, all I have is today. Or I can go that way. I can chose to wrestle for control of the future. To attempt to hold the unknown in my hands and mold it into something of substance. Like holding water in my hands and squeezing it until it becomes ice. Not improbable so much as downright impossible.

Perhaps both paths lead to the same outcome. Perhaps, next week (that’s called optimism), my agent will call and say a book deal is on the table. Perhaps the choice isn’t where I end up, but who I have become by the time I get there.

But either way, this way or that way, I get to choose.

L.E.G.S.

On Life, ,

 

Marriage is like a horse.

 

The potential strength and power of the relationship are dependent on limbs that are easily damaged. In my last blog, I posed a challenge.

What names would you give the four supports of marriage?

In presenting that question, I gave myself a great deal to think about. How do I quantify the essence of marriage in four distinct categories? What if there are five? Then marriage cannot be like a horse. Or, if it is, then it has to be like a five legged horse and I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure that’s incredibly rare. But marriage isn’t rare. It’s common. As common as a four legged horse…It’s dizzying at times to be inside my head.

I’m not an expert on horses and neither am I an expert on marriage. This is just my opinion. But maybe, it isn’t about getting the list right. Maybe it’s about putting forth the energy and effort to recognize the investment required.

So, here’s my list. Set to the acronym “LEGS” for fairly obvious reasons. And, see? Four things!

 

Listening. Yup, got that one. Let’s move on…Wait, I mean really listening. I’m talking about more than just hearing. “I see your lips moving but all I hear is blah, blah, blah.” That’s not listening. Listening is an exercise in discovering what the other person isn’t saying.

 

Empathy. (Hey, I didn’t promise this to be a fun list.) What might it feel like to be the other person? What hurts and wounds do they carry that cause them to react the way they do? Put their shoes on for a day. If you catch their althete’s foot, you won’t complain about spending money on Lotrimin again.

 

“Great” expectations. Horses are strong. They can carry a great deal of weight. They cannot however, carry a dozen suitcases, ill packed and ranging in size. Don’t expect your spouse to be able to cart around all your baggage either. If the horse is struggling, maybe it’s time to start addressing the load it’s under.

 

Service and maintenance. A horse not exercised regularly cannot perform in an endurance situation. A marriage not maintained properly cannot keep going either. Spend time together. Do things that married couples do. Regularly. And if you see an opportunity to serve the other person. Do that too.

 

May you care regularly for the fragile legs of your marriage and may they, in turn, support you until it’s time for the glue factory in the sky. (Death do you part and all that.)

Marriage is like a Horse

On Life, ,

Versace, the greatest! photo by Jaymie Noland

 

Marriage is like a horse.

Some days, marriage is like a horse’s rear end.

But let’s focus on the big picture.

Ever since I was a little girl, I have been enthralled with the giant creatures. They are powerful and graceful. Fast and stately. Their ability to move their bulk with speed and elegance is breathtaking. And, throughout the course of history, we have used them to accomplish tasks we could not do on our own.

Marriage is like a horse.

It has the capacity to be strong and graceful. Stately and enduring. With it, we have the potential to accomplish what we could not do on our own. The combination of strength and stability has been the bedrock of civilizations for thousands of years. A marvelous creation.

And yet, like the horse, it is supported by four delicate limbs.

It is fragile. A slight break in the fetlock leaves the imposing strength of the beast ineffectual. A disruption of trust or compassion renders the relationship inoperative. A horse without the use of all four legs is glue fodder. A marriage without the full use of it’s undergirding is fractured and frail.

Marriage is like a horse.

The mighty creation rests upon fragile and vulnerable legs. I could surmise what those four legs might be labeled (and I will later) but I am soooo curious to hear what you would call them.

What are the four vulnerable pillars of marriage? Would you claim trust or tenacity on the list? Or tenderness and devotion?

Oh wait, here is a word that you cannot use.

                                  LOVE       

(Sorry but that’s way too vague. You all can do way better than that!)

So, name four things that every healthy marriage must have in order to survive and thrive.

Let’s hear ‘em!!

Pizza and mashed potatoes

On Life, ,

 

I have never been one to get excited about a smorgasbord. My children, on the other hand, get ecstatic. Macaroni and cheese with a side of pizza and another side of jello. A second trip for a plate full of fried chicken and more jello. And finally, a third trip for the mashed potatoes and sliced peaches.

Not a meal they would typically get at home. But the beauty of it is the choice. They get to walk around isles of food and pick only what looks good. ‘Cause that’s such a great representation of life, right?

Several years ago I had a checkup with my doctor. The subject of hormones was broached and I was asked how I was doing. As any self respecting woman would respond, I said, “OK.”

Undeterred, and obviously not buying my feeble reply, the doctor paused and rephrased the question. “Ever so often, say once a month, does your husband, or anyone else in your family, notice a big ‘ol pot of crazy and choose not to stir it?”

I laughed and cried at the same time. How could such a creative question not earn a completely honest response? And so I then said, “Uh, yeah, probably.”

The antidote for me against the big ‘ol pot of crazy is to run. Consistently. Not once a week or every other month. But consistently. I have at times practiced this and it seems to keep the crazy to a low simmer. The way I see it, I have two choices. I can run and be a functioning, rational woman. Or I can not run and be, well, the opposite.

Life is not a smorgasbord. We want it to be a trip down the yogurt isle where any flavor one can possibly imagine can be picked out. But, being the bearer of bad news, I must say, it is not natural to eat pizza and mashed potatoes at the same meal. And neither do I get to post-pone my runs for months at a time and not keep the crazy at bay.

I can bemoan the fact that I must run to function emotionally. I can scream from the top of the mountain (which I did not run up) that life is not fair. I can whine and complain how I wish life were more like a smorgasbord.

But I really only have one choice.

To run, or not to run? That is the question. And the answer? I’m thinking I need to start running again.

Is there something you know you really should do but you don’t like to do it? Please commiserate. I’d love to know it’s not just me.

 

 

Badges? Badges? We don’t need no stinkin’ badges!

On Life, , , ,

I am so jealous of the Girl Scouts. And not for the reasons you might think. Sure they have the “Thin Mints” and the “Samoas” and the “Lemonades.” All pure genius. But those aren’t covet inducing.

I see the Girl Scouts and the thing I want most is the vest. Think about it. Haven’t you done some stuff that is badge worthy? Reached a mileage goal in running, or a weight goal or an anniversary?

My vest would be a color other than kelly green (this is my daydream so I get to pick) and I would wear my badges proudly. It sounds ridiculous but we do it everyday. At the end of the day, my to-do list is examined. How many badges did I earn today? Laundry, grocery shopping, bills, chauffeuring, and on and on. The number of badges earned is compared to the number of badges missed and an opinion is formed. Good day? Not so good day? Horrible day?

On those days where the accomplishment column is on the empty side, my self-worth swirls around the porcelain bowl that still needs cleaning. And always on those days, I seem to come face to face with the vests of those around me. Their vests are laden with badges! How in the world can I keep up? They have badges I’ve never even thought of!

But the rebel in me, that part that wants to rage against the machine longs to be free. I wish to walk into my yard and burn the vest. And then shout from the hill behind my house…

“Badges? Badges? We don’t need no stinkin’ badges!!”

Imagine a day where the only goal is to live. Live every moment until you fall into bed without thought of to-do lists and badges. (Cue orchestra.) To fall asleep simply remembering the moments that made you laugh or cry. (Music builds to crescendo.)

Who’s with me? (Applause and screaming.)

Say it with me…

We don’t need no stinkin’ badges!