Last week during Sunday School the discussion led to my uttering the words "grinding horror."
"That," my brother said immediately, "would be a great title for a blog." I thought about that on and off throughout the week, and realized that not only was he right, but that once you go down that trail, all sorts of possibilities emerge. Here's my list of alternate blog names:
Grinding Horror: for those moments when life is the grinder and you're the coffee bean.
While the Butter Softens.
Ad-Libbed (in honor of my favorite Calvin and Hobbes strip, where the father is talking to his wife and says "I don't think I'd have been in such a hurry to reach adulthood if I'd known the whole thing was going to be ad-libbed.")
Still Life With Books.
Thinking and Driving.
As the Kitchen Sinks (inspired by an old Transformer cartoon where the Autobots are shown briefly watching a soap opera of the same name. Hysterical.)
Mom, Interrupted.
So there you go. What would your list look like?
Saturday, March 22, 2014
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Potpourri of Thoughts
The first blog post of a new year should no doubt be pithy, funny, compelling, and of such high quality that it goes viral, and gets me a permanent invitation to blog somewhere important. Ha. Instead, I offer a potpourri of thoughts, in no particular order. ("Is the noise in my head bothering you?")
The Long Winter seems the best book for the season. I haven't been able to go running around the Acres since December because of the constant snow cover. Branches are down everywhere, frozen in place. There's a brief, tantalizing thaw, then "only kidding folks, back to Siberia for you" and it snows and freezes again. Somewhere, a groundhog is congratulating itself on being right. Despite this, I actually noticed signs of life in one flowerbed on the east side of the house. Tiny green shoots are bravely trying to grow. Spring always comes, even if sometimes it's later than we'd like.
I love road trips. We took one to North Carolina a few weeks ago, and even traveling solo with 3 children was okay. This probably goes back to the long Florida trips of my childhood, a topic which deserves its own post. Now, I enjoy getting ready, packing, getting directions, and driving. (Well, enjoy is maybe too strong a word. Better to say I don't mind it). The only task for the day is to get there safely, and I love having time to think. I also prefer to take back roads whenever possible; America is much more attractive when you get off the main highways. We drove through Loudon County, VA, and the echoes of the Civil War were all around us, under the housing developments, over the mountain ridges, crossing the Potomac.
I hate conflict. I hate when people misunderstand one another and when we can't find common ground. Above all, I like niceness. I wonder sometimes how godly that is. And no, I don't want to talk any more about that right now.
Middlemarch by George Elliot is one of those classic books that I tried to get into about 10 years ago, and couldn't. I've been reading it again, slowly, over the past few weeks, and am really enjoying it! Her characters are so well drawn, and her observations into human behavior are generally accurate. I find myself laughing in recognition, and saying "Yes, that is how people behave!" Perhaps you have to be a certain age to appreciate some of the classics?
Last year's trips to Europe were so wonderful they made me eager for more international travel. Dreaming, yes, but you never know ... most great events start out as dreams.
The Long Winter seems the best book for the season. I haven't been able to go running around the Acres since December because of the constant snow cover. Branches are down everywhere, frozen in place. There's a brief, tantalizing thaw, then "only kidding folks, back to Siberia for you" and it snows and freezes again. Somewhere, a groundhog is congratulating itself on being right. Despite this, I actually noticed signs of life in one flowerbed on the east side of the house. Tiny green shoots are bravely trying to grow. Spring always comes, even if sometimes it's later than we'd like.
I love road trips. We took one to North Carolina a few weeks ago, and even traveling solo with 3 children was okay. This probably goes back to the long Florida trips of my childhood, a topic which deserves its own post. Now, I enjoy getting ready, packing, getting directions, and driving. (Well, enjoy is maybe too strong a word. Better to say I don't mind it). The only task for the day is to get there safely, and I love having time to think. I also prefer to take back roads whenever possible; America is much more attractive when you get off the main highways. We drove through Loudon County, VA, and the echoes of the Civil War were all around us, under the housing developments, over the mountain ridges, crossing the Potomac.
I hate conflict. I hate when people misunderstand one another and when we can't find common ground. Above all, I like niceness. I wonder sometimes how godly that is. And no, I don't want to talk any more about that right now.
Middlemarch by George Elliot is one of those classic books that I tried to get into about 10 years ago, and couldn't. I've been reading it again, slowly, over the past few weeks, and am really enjoying it! Her characters are so well drawn, and her observations into human behavior are generally accurate. I find myself laughing in recognition, and saying "Yes, that is how people behave!" Perhaps you have to be a certain age to appreciate some of the classics?
Last year's trips to Europe were so wonderful they made me eager for more international travel. Dreaming, yes, but you never know ... most great events start out as dreams.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Postcard from the airport
It's now been 25 hours since I've slept, so if this post is incoherent, that's the reason. Still, what better way to pass the time till check in than to write? So, faithful reader, here's a postcard from the airport.
As an infrequent traveler, who just finished her fifth flight ever, the novelty hasn't worn off. The last 18 hours have been an almost complete disconnect from my normal life. It's as if, when I walked onto the plane, I temporarily shed my identity. No one here knows anything about me. (Interestingly, people seem to assume I'm German, until I start speaking. Must be the Hess and Herr coming out). It's nice, at least for a short time. No phone calls, no driving, no one asking me for snacks. Instead, I'm being catered to, with free coffe, apples, coffeecake, and wifi at the USO. The lack of domestic responsibility almost cancels out the jet lag.
I'm aware, by the way, that if I was staying home with children and reading a friend's blog, even reading a complaint about something like jet lag would probably come across like a size 2 complaining to a size 10 about how hard it was to find clothes that fit. It would be a little hard to empathize. ;) I"m still pinching myself a little that we get to have this amazing opportunity/gift.
Clothes and fashion always interest me, so I've been observing everyone's style. If you want to dress like a European this fall, the two must-haves appear to be scarves and boots. Any kind of boots. They should be worn with slim pants, tights, or leggings. Short hair is more popular over here too, so I feel right at home.
A cup of coffee is calling my name. That's it for now.
As an infrequent traveler, who just finished her fifth flight ever, the novelty hasn't worn off. The last 18 hours have been an almost complete disconnect from my normal life. It's as if, when I walked onto the plane, I temporarily shed my identity. No one here knows anything about me. (Interestingly, people seem to assume I'm German, until I start speaking. Must be the Hess and Herr coming out). It's nice, at least for a short time. No phone calls, no driving, no one asking me for snacks. Instead, I'm being catered to, with free coffe, apples, coffeecake, and wifi at the USO. The lack of domestic responsibility almost cancels out the jet lag.
I'm aware, by the way, that if I was staying home with children and reading a friend's blog, even reading a complaint about something like jet lag would probably come across like a size 2 complaining to a size 10 about how hard it was to find clothes that fit. It would be a little hard to empathize. ;) I"m still pinching myself a little that we get to have this amazing opportunity/gift.
Clothes and fashion always interest me, so I've been observing everyone's style. If you want to dress like a European this fall, the two must-haves appear to be scarves and boots. Any kind of boots. They should be worn with slim pants, tights, or leggings. Short hair is more popular over here too, so I feel right at home.
A cup of coffee is calling my name. That's it for now.
Saturday, August 3, 2013
Tea and stereotypes
If I had a bucket list, a visit to England would be somewhere near the top of the list. The bookworm in me yearns to see the home country of P.G. Wodehouse, Agatha Christie, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Lewis, Tolkien, Sayers ... need I go on? So, when our first British guests were due to arrive this summer, I was excited. Sure, I knew my view of the country was somewhat out of date. Rosamunde Pilcher is about as modern as I get. Still, I made sure the tea kettle was clean, the tea supply was replenished, and purchased a carton of milk for the refrigerator.
Our guests, 2 couples touring America together, pulled up in a white SUV. The driver leaped out and strode over to shake my hand. "Julia? I'm Nick." I blinked. Instead of the button-down jacket wearing guy I'd been expecting, the man before me could have taken his place at a Grateful Dead concert. Gray hair flowed to his shoulders, and he sported a black Hard Rock Café T shirt, baseball cap, and a pair of patchwork pants. He managed to carry off this look with aplomb.
By now the second man had climbed out of the car. He looked like the missing member of ZZ Top. Grey hair reached to his shoulder blades, and his mustache and beard were impressive. I began to wonder if we would be hosting a Battle of the Bands in our driveway. Their wives emerged, also clad in T-shirts and jeans, and we all began to chat, as my stereotypes fell in ruins at my feet.
All four were pleasant and easy to talk to, and we chatted a little about their trip to America. "I think I'm finally getting the hang of your money." the one said. "Oh yes," I remarked, trying to show off my knowledge, "The euro is different isn't it?"
"We're not as bad as that yet!" they all exclaimed. "We still have the pound!" Oops. "But, you are part of the European Union, right?" Groans all around. "Don't get us started on politics. We could talk your ear off." I began to wonder if London was till the capital, or if any impression I'd had of England was true, but kept these thoughts to myself.
By this point we were in the apartment, and I showed them around. The kitchen was the last stop, and as we walked in, one of the women looked around, then clasped her hands. "You have a tea kettle! Wonderful!" Finally, the universe began to make sense again. Apparently the English still like tea. "Yes, and I have some milk in the fridge for you." "Marvelous!" they all exclaimed. "There's nothing like a cup of tea."
They were a fun bunch to host, and when they had checked out a few days later, I went over to clean up. To my delight, they had left a bag of British made Tetley tea. I went home and brewed a cup, and it was some of the best I'd drunk in years. Times change, but Brits still know how to make a good cup of tea. This is what you do:
Start with the best quality black tea you can get.
Wash your tea kettle and fill with fresh cold water. Bring it to a boil. Meanwhile, get out your tea, and place it in a china tea cup, or a Hard Rock Café mug. Pour the boiling water over the tea, and let steep for a few minutes. Add milk, lemon, or sugar as desired. Sit down, put your feet up, and enjoy your tea. Patchwork pants optional.
Our guests, 2 couples touring America together, pulled up in a white SUV. The driver leaped out and strode over to shake my hand. "Julia? I'm Nick." I blinked. Instead of the button-down jacket wearing guy I'd been expecting, the man before me could have taken his place at a Grateful Dead concert. Gray hair flowed to his shoulders, and he sported a black Hard Rock Café T shirt, baseball cap, and a pair of patchwork pants. He managed to carry off this look with aplomb.
By now the second man had climbed out of the car. He looked like the missing member of ZZ Top. Grey hair reached to his shoulder blades, and his mustache and beard were impressive. I began to wonder if we would be hosting a Battle of the Bands in our driveway. Their wives emerged, also clad in T-shirts and jeans, and we all began to chat, as my stereotypes fell in ruins at my feet.
All four were pleasant and easy to talk to, and we chatted a little about their trip to America. "I think I'm finally getting the hang of your money." the one said. "Oh yes," I remarked, trying to show off my knowledge, "The euro is different isn't it?"
"We're not as bad as that yet!" they all exclaimed. "We still have the pound!" Oops. "But, you are part of the European Union, right?" Groans all around. "Don't get us started on politics. We could talk your ear off." I began to wonder if London was till the capital, or if any impression I'd had of England was true, but kept these thoughts to myself.
By this point we were in the apartment, and I showed them around. The kitchen was the last stop, and as we walked in, one of the women looked around, then clasped her hands. "You have a tea kettle! Wonderful!" Finally, the universe began to make sense again. Apparently the English still like tea. "Yes, and I have some milk in the fridge for you." "Marvelous!" they all exclaimed. "There's nothing like a cup of tea."
They were a fun bunch to host, and when they had checked out a few days later, I went over to clean up. To my delight, they had left a bag of British made Tetley tea. I went home and brewed a cup, and it was some of the best I'd drunk in years. Times change, but Brits still know how to make a good cup of tea. This is what you do:
Start with the best quality black tea you can get.
Wash your tea kettle and fill with fresh cold water. Bring it to a boil. Meanwhile, get out your tea, and place it in a china tea cup, or a Hard Rock Café mug. Pour the boiling water over the tea, and let steep for a few minutes. Add milk, lemon, or sugar as desired. Sit down, put your feet up, and enjoy your tea. Patchwork pants optional.
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Finally, something that isn't gloomy!
The last few posts have been, um, kind of heavy, haven't they? Surgery fears, more than we can handle, discontent ... string them all together and the picture is decidedly skewed toward the dark side. (Yes, I know: if I wrote more frequently this might not be an issue). I do end up using this space as therapy, and you may feel in need of some after you read it!
There are many good things going on right now in the midst of the craziness that is summer. The children and I have 5 weeks under our belts, 6 more to go. Sure, there's the daily squabbles, but no one has yet threatened to run away or hide in the bathtub for the afternoon. I have 6 fun events saved up my sleeve, one for each remaining week, which feels like money in the bank. The guest house rental is going reasonably well - everyone seems to be enjoying themselves, and our daughter is thrilled that several visitors have had girls her age. Oh, and airconditioners, even the window unit kind, get my vote for best top 10 inventions ever. Nate and I get to talk almost every day, and I'm actually remembering to send notes and care packages on a semi-regular basis.
We even have room for some long planned extras like swim lessons, an upcoming 2 days off for me (hallelujah! hallelujah! .... ) and a possible day camp. I'm learning to let the housework go a bit, and expand my "messiness comfort zone." Hey, the children are over getting their own breakfasts while I write this. They're probably watching a video and eating cornflakes in the living room, but at least they're getting independent. So many things to be thankful for!
There are many good things going on right now in the midst of the craziness that is summer. The children and I have 5 weeks under our belts, 6 more to go. Sure, there's the daily squabbles, but no one has yet threatened to run away or hide in the bathtub for the afternoon. I have 6 fun events saved up my sleeve, one for each remaining week, which feels like money in the bank. The guest house rental is going reasonably well - everyone seems to be enjoying themselves, and our daughter is thrilled that several visitors have had girls her age. Oh, and airconditioners, even the window unit kind, get my vote for best top 10 inventions ever. Nate and I get to talk almost every day, and I'm actually remembering to send notes and care packages on a semi-regular basis.
We even have room for some long planned extras like swim lessons, an upcoming 2 days off for me (hallelujah! hallelujah! .... ) and a possible day camp. I'm learning to let the housework go a bit, and expand my "messiness comfort zone." Hey, the children are over getting their own breakfasts while I write this. They're probably watching a video and eating cornflakes in the living room, but at least they're getting independent. So many things to be thankful for!
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Contentment and other impossibles
Well, I walked over to mom's computer all prepared to write a review of The Great Gatsby, Baz Luhrman version (bottom line: long, but worth your time), and made the mistake of opening facebook.
Saw a picture someone posted of their newly purchased beautiful stone historic house, with incredible landscaping.
How honest can I be here on this blog? How honest do I want to be? Friends, I coveted that house. Seriously, it was like a punch to the stomach. I wanted it. I was jealous of this person, who I don't even know. Then I was angry. Why can't I have something like this? Or even close to this? I'm a freaking cancer survivor for Pete's sake - don't I deserve this? Then, the guilt. Coveting, envying - this is sin. Being ungrateful for what you do have, that you and your husband work hard for - this is sin. But I still want a house like that.
Contentment is a hard lesson to learn. This is why I stay off Pinterest. But you can't disengage from life, and when you live in this area, you can't avoid beautiful houses that belong to other people.
Feelings pop up all the time - with me it's usually envy and anger. For you it may be different. And each time I have to play spiritual whack-a-mole: hit them on the head with prayer and then redirect.
Why do I share this with you? Because writing it out helps. Because I don't want to hide struggles, even if they paint me in a bad light. Actually, light is usually the only thing that banishes the darkness.
Now, in the spirit of whack-a-mole, I'm going to get off the computer.
Saw a picture someone posted of their newly purchased beautiful stone historic house, with incredible landscaping.
How honest can I be here on this blog? How honest do I want to be? Friends, I coveted that house. Seriously, it was like a punch to the stomach. I wanted it. I was jealous of this person, who I don't even know. Then I was angry. Why can't I have something like this? Or even close to this? I'm a freaking cancer survivor for Pete's sake - don't I deserve this? Then, the guilt. Coveting, envying - this is sin. Being ungrateful for what you do have, that you and your husband work hard for - this is sin. But I still want a house like that.
Contentment is a hard lesson to learn. This is why I stay off Pinterest. But you can't disengage from life, and when you live in this area, you can't avoid beautiful houses that belong to other people.
Feelings pop up all the time - with me it's usually envy and anger. For you it may be different. And each time I have to play spiritual whack-a-mole: hit them on the head with prayer and then redirect.
Why do I share this with you? Because writing it out helps. Because I don't want to hide struggles, even if they paint me in a bad light. Actually, light is usually the only thing that banishes the darkness.
Now, in the spirit of whack-a-mole, I'm going to get off the computer.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
More Than We Can Handle
I'm sitting in Monkey Joe's, Fayetteville's overly airconditioned but well equipped bouncy house (huge bouncers for the kids, cushioned rockers, cable TV and computer access for the parents). This will be our last visit here before Nate's deployment at the end of the month.
There's a lot I have to learn about being a military spouse, but one thing comes up frequently: be strong. "You must be a strong woman" several people told me. "I could never do what you are doing." "Army Strong." "Be strong and don't complain too much," I've told myself. "People won't understand your situation, and you don't need to hand them reasons to doubt your decisions in life." (Painful to admit, but true). Undergirding all this is a hazy assumption that God won't give me more than I can handle. That's Biblical, isn't it?
Well, not really. Something didn't sit quite right with that assumption, but I didn't put a finger on it until I read a book called "God Strong" (recommended by the only other Army wife I know: thanks again Kristy!) I wish I could give you the direct quote, but I didn't pack the book in my bag when we left the house. However, her basic point is that in tough situations we often tell ourselves that God will not give us more than we can bear. The assumption is that if we just grit our teeth hard enough, pull our bootstraps hard enough, work hard enough, we can get through things in our own strength. Wrong.
Where does this idea come from? Probably from the Bible verse that says "But God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear, but will provide a way for you to bear up/escape from it" (My paraphrase). The author (Sara Horn) rightly points out that this verse is about temptation, not necessarily every tough life issue. When I am tempted to anger, to laziness, to gossip, to gluttony, that's when God always provides a way out of it.
At other times, however, God allows things in our lives that are much more than we can "handle." If that hasn't happened to you or someone you love yet, don't worry, it will. You or someone you love will be diagnosed with cancer. A marriage will end in anger and tears. Chronic illness will stretch out its weary lifetime. Children will rebel. Friendships will break. Unemployment, money worries, family fights, mental illness, 9 month deployments, stress ... these will break our backs.
Why does this happen? Isn't Christianity supposed to be my ticket to peace, joy, and abundant life? Yes, but it begins/continues with this truth: We need God for everything. There are stages in life when it's easy to push this aside. When life is going comparatively well, it's tempting to think that my own efforts and good character are what carry me through. It's only when the rug gets pulled out from under me that I realize how weak I am.
This is an invitation for me to let go of my human pride, and "goodness" and "strength" and to use God's unending strength instead. "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." We can do the hard things in our lives, but only because God gives us His strength.
Paradoxically, it's often easier to realize this in the big crises of life. I knew cancer was more than I could handle, and so did everybody else, and it was much easier for me to rely on God and help from others. It humbles me to admit that the day to day parenting issues, car stuff, and house maintenance are sometimes more than I can handle also, but there it is. The challenge is to turn to God instead of my own resources.
"When you have exhausted your store of endurance,
When your strength has failed ere the day is half done;
When you come to the end of your hoarded resources,
Your Father's full giving has only begun!"
There's a lot I have to learn about being a military spouse, but one thing comes up frequently: be strong. "You must be a strong woman" several people told me. "I could never do what you are doing." "Army Strong." "Be strong and don't complain too much," I've told myself. "People won't understand your situation, and you don't need to hand them reasons to doubt your decisions in life." (Painful to admit, but true). Undergirding all this is a hazy assumption that God won't give me more than I can handle. That's Biblical, isn't it?
Well, not really. Something didn't sit quite right with that assumption, but I didn't put a finger on it until I read a book called "God Strong" (recommended by the only other Army wife I know: thanks again Kristy!) I wish I could give you the direct quote, but I didn't pack the book in my bag when we left the house. However, her basic point is that in tough situations we often tell ourselves that God will not give us more than we can bear. The assumption is that if we just grit our teeth hard enough, pull our bootstraps hard enough, work hard enough, we can get through things in our own strength. Wrong.
Where does this idea come from? Probably from the Bible verse that says "But God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear, but will provide a way for you to bear up/escape from it" (My paraphrase). The author (Sara Horn) rightly points out that this verse is about temptation, not necessarily every tough life issue. When I am tempted to anger, to laziness, to gossip, to gluttony, that's when God always provides a way out of it.
At other times, however, God allows things in our lives that are much more than we can "handle." If that hasn't happened to you or someone you love yet, don't worry, it will. You or someone you love will be diagnosed with cancer. A marriage will end in anger and tears. Chronic illness will stretch out its weary lifetime. Children will rebel. Friendships will break. Unemployment, money worries, family fights, mental illness, 9 month deployments, stress ... these will break our backs.
Why does this happen? Isn't Christianity supposed to be my ticket to peace, joy, and abundant life? Yes, but it begins/continues with this truth: We need God for everything. There are stages in life when it's easy to push this aside. When life is going comparatively well, it's tempting to think that my own efforts and good character are what carry me through. It's only when the rug gets pulled out from under me that I realize how weak I am.
This is an invitation for me to let go of my human pride, and "goodness" and "strength" and to use God's unending strength instead. "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." We can do the hard things in our lives, but only because God gives us His strength.
Paradoxically, it's often easier to realize this in the big crises of life. I knew cancer was more than I could handle, and so did everybody else, and it was much easier for me to rely on God and help from others. It humbles me to admit that the day to day parenting issues, car stuff, and house maintenance are sometimes more than I can handle also, but there it is. The challenge is to turn to God instead of my own resources.
"When you have exhausted your store of endurance,
When your strength has failed ere the day is half done;
When you come to the end of your hoarded resources,
Your Father's full giving has only begun!"
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Control
I like the illusion that I'm in control of my life.
Most times the regular routines prop up this myth: get the children out the door and off to school, do laundry, housework, shop, visit a friend, go to the library, prepare meals ... vibrant, purposeful activity shapes my day and my sense of control.
As I write this, I'm convalescing from surgery. Humanly and medically speaking, I've now done everything possible, sacrificed every last bit to ensure that breast and ovarian cancer are not in my future. The prolonged weakness and pain took me by surprise - I'd forgotten what even a "minor" surgery does to the body. No housework, no driving, no shopping; just me, the sofa and my thoughts. No distractions. No escape.
Right now even the internet is not my friend. Google "surgical menopause" and the words "abrupt", "premature aging", "osteoporosis", "a shell", "afraid of change", and "anger" unscroll in a litany of
fear.
Issues that I believed I'd dealt with, surrendered to God, started poking their heads above ground, like resurgent weeds. Why must I face these hard choices and their consequences? I had followed all the rules, lived a good girl life, no smoking, no drinking, no drugs, a healthy lifestyle. Why must I pioneer this course in our family? I'm a terrible pioneer. In a melodramatic moment I told Nate I felt like a punching bag - just as I'd reached equilibrium and stopped swaying after the events of four years ago, the universe reached out a casual hand and punched my life again. What next?
Now I am aware that the appropriate mature Christian response is not "Why me" but "why not me." I must also confess that at times the mature Christian response is long in coming. I'm not sure it can be hurried. God is bigger than my anger, my questions, my fears. Rationally, I know God works his own purposes for His glory and our good, but emotionally I think frankly that I could do a better job running my life at the moment. Instead of building up my soul with unpleasant and permanent choices, I'd choose to build up my soul with some unexpected blessings like a trip to Europe, a four bedroom house, children who obey me at least two thirds of the time, and a landscaped yard.
I'm only partially kidding.
At the same time, I realize how ridiculous it is to expect that I could control my life in a positive way when I can't get through a day without losing control of my temper.
Dear reader, this is a more honest post than I usually allow myself. It's where I'm at on February 17, 2013.
I cannot know Why. I can only learn to know and trust Who.
Most times the regular routines prop up this myth: get the children out the door and off to school, do laundry, housework, shop, visit a friend, go to the library, prepare meals ... vibrant, purposeful activity shapes my day and my sense of control.
As I write this, I'm convalescing from surgery. Humanly and medically speaking, I've now done everything possible, sacrificed every last bit to ensure that breast and ovarian cancer are not in my future. The prolonged weakness and pain took me by surprise - I'd forgotten what even a "minor" surgery does to the body. No housework, no driving, no shopping; just me, the sofa and my thoughts. No distractions. No escape.
Right now even the internet is not my friend. Google "surgical menopause" and the words "abrupt", "premature aging", "osteoporosis", "a shell", "afraid of change", and "anger" unscroll in a litany of
fear.
Issues that I believed I'd dealt with, surrendered to God, started poking their heads above ground, like resurgent weeds. Why must I face these hard choices and their consequences? I had followed all the rules, lived a good girl life, no smoking, no drinking, no drugs, a healthy lifestyle. Why must I pioneer this course in our family? I'm a terrible pioneer. In a melodramatic moment I told Nate I felt like a punching bag - just as I'd reached equilibrium and stopped swaying after the events of four years ago, the universe reached out a casual hand and punched my life again. What next?
Now I am aware that the appropriate mature Christian response is not "Why me" but "why not me." I must also confess that at times the mature Christian response is long in coming. I'm not sure it can be hurried. God is bigger than my anger, my questions, my fears. Rationally, I know God works his own purposes for His glory and our good, but emotionally I think frankly that I could do a better job running my life at the moment. Instead of building up my soul with unpleasant and permanent choices, I'd choose to build up my soul with some unexpected blessings like a trip to Europe, a four bedroom house, children who obey me at least two thirds of the time, and a landscaped yard.
I'm only partially kidding.
At the same time, I realize how ridiculous it is to expect that I could control my life in a positive way when I can't get through a day without losing control of my temper.
Dear reader, this is a more honest post than I usually allow myself. It's where I'm at on February 17, 2013.
I cannot know Why. I can only learn to know and trust Who.
Friday, December 21, 2012
The light shines in the darkness...
Christmas is coming. The nativity is arranged, cookies are baked, decorations are in place. We even managed to get a wreath on the door this year, and the presents are all purchased. Our children are excited. My husband and I are trying, but we feel strange.
All tragedy is horrible, but it seems worse when it happens near Christmastime. Today before I sat down to write this, I looked on a few news sites, and soon my eyes were brimming with tears again. I see our precious children, ages 8, 7 and 4, reflected in each little face. My "why?" is a pale shadow compared to the grieving parents. In self-defense, we can't look too long at such pain.
How, especially as a Christian, do any of us navigate suffering? How do we find the life preserver to cling to, the rock to stand on when the waves are so wild? And how can we balance a world that contains both pain and joy so close together?
In thinking about this for the past few days I realized again that the original Christmas didn't occur in a holy vacuum. There may have been peace in the stable that night, but all around the world was up to its usual tricks. Poverty, hunger, cruelty, slavery - all were thriving even as Christ was born. Days later, dozens of mothers reeled as Herod's men killed their tiny sons, for reasons they probably never understood. Pain and joy were side by side from the start.
"In Him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it." John 1: 4, 5.
The light seems so small and fragile at times. The candle flickers and nearly goes out. The darkness looms large for days, months, decades. Evil marches on. In such moments, despair seems entirely logical.
The message of Christmas that I want to understand is that the light does indeed shine and the darkness has not overcome it. Christmas is only the beginning of the story, and it takes place amid the pain and heartache and joy of the real world. It is not unrealistic fantasy - it's the truest thing there is. There is evil in the world, yes; but there is also much good. I want to strengthen and uphold the good, to fight for it and protect it, to be on the side of joy and light. So this year I will say a prayer for those in Newtown, and weep with those who weep, even at a distance. I will hug my children more. I will sing carols in hope and anticipation, I will strive to make good memories for our family. I will try to remember that "though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet." In every way I can, I will uphold the light. Darkness will not overcome it.
All tragedy is horrible, but it seems worse when it happens near Christmastime. Today before I sat down to write this, I looked on a few news sites, and soon my eyes were brimming with tears again. I see our precious children, ages 8, 7 and 4, reflected in each little face. My "why?" is a pale shadow compared to the grieving parents. In self-defense, we can't look too long at such pain.
How, especially as a Christian, do any of us navigate suffering? How do we find the life preserver to cling to, the rock to stand on when the waves are so wild? And how can we balance a world that contains both pain and joy so close together?
In thinking about this for the past few days I realized again that the original Christmas didn't occur in a holy vacuum. There may have been peace in the stable that night, but all around the world was up to its usual tricks. Poverty, hunger, cruelty, slavery - all were thriving even as Christ was born. Days later, dozens of mothers reeled as Herod's men killed their tiny sons, for reasons they probably never understood. Pain and joy were side by side from the start.
"In Him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it." John 1: 4, 5.
The light seems so small and fragile at times. The candle flickers and nearly goes out. The darkness looms large for days, months, decades. Evil marches on. In such moments, despair seems entirely logical.
The message of Christmas that I want to understand is that the light does indeed shine and the darkness has not overcome it. Christmas is only the beginning of the story, and it takes place amid the pain and heartache and joy of the real world. It is not unrealistic fantasy - it's the truest thing there is. There is evil in the world, yes; but there is also much good. I want to strengthen and uphold the good, to fight for it and protect it, to be on the side of joy and light. So this year I will say a prayer for those in Newtown, and weep with those who weep, even at a distance. I will hug my children more. I will sing carols in hope and anticipation, I will strive to make good memories for our family. I will try to remember that "though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet." In every way I can, I will uphold the light. Darkness will not overcome it.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
The Joys of Jello Salad: Because sometimes Jello makes life better
So here I am after a 2 month hiatus, and what do I choose to write about? Jello salad. Makes perfect sense, right? Follow me on this.
When I went to the supermarket this week, I ventured down the candy aisle, because we may have a camp out this weekend, and camp outs require S'mores, which require marshmallows. Then I decided to check the back of the mini marshmallow bag to see if they had a receipe for Rice Krispy bars. (I have tried to make Rice Krispy bars without a recipe, and it was a complete failure). Not only did the bag have a Rice Krispy recipe, it also had the recipe for Watergate Salad.
If you've never had Watergate Salad, just wait till the end of this column, because I'm going to give you the recipe, and it's so easy. I still remember the first time I ate it. It wasn't at home; my mother never made Watergate Salad in her life. She cooked mostly out of the More-With-Less Cookbook, which, in its chapter on salads, sternly informed the reader that "Too many salad recipes read like dessert - gelatin mix, whipped cream, sweetened canned fruit ..." When we had jello, it was made with orange juice and plain gelatin, or had carrots in it. Just not the same. That being said, she made great chocolate cake and chocolate chip cookies on a regular basis, so I don't hold the orange juice jello against her.
Grandma Rhoda was different, and it was in the little brick rancher on Sprecher Road (which always smelled like fresh bread) that I first ate Watergate Salad. We had gone there for dinner on Sunday, into that tidy house with the corner china closet, the chenille-like sofa with the afghan draped over the back, the painted china lamp, and upholstered rocking chair. We all sat down around the table, which had been moved into the living room, and extended its full length. I don't remember the rest of the menu, but based on what she served over the years it was probably ham, ham loaf or roast turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, succotash made with home frozen corn and lima beans, a cut glass platter of celery, perhaps sweet potato croquettes, buttered noodles, and angel food cake. There was also a glass bowl of something strangely light green: "Watergate Salad." One bite of the Cool Whip, pistachio pudding, marshmallow and nuts, and I loved it. From that time on, I looked for this concoction at every reunion and fellowship meal, and gleefully helped myself.
Fast forward to the early years of marriage, when I borrowed mom's cookbooks. In the salad chapter of the Black Rock cookbook, what should I find but my old friend, Watergate Salad. I hadn't realized how easy it was to make, and proudly made a bowlful for us that week. Nate liked it but wasn't crazy about it, and I decided it had better remain an occasional treat, or I'd eat way too much.
Most of the time I try to eat healthfully, and avoid jello and instant pudding, which, let's face it, is pretty much pure sugar. But there are times when my inner Mennonite cannot be denied; times when a meal feels a little skimpy, and needs something to round it out, times when life seems the better for a touch of sweetness. In that light, I present my two favorite jello salad recipes. If it makes you feel better, call them dessert.
Watergate Salad:
3 1/2 oz pack pistachio instant pudding
9 oz container Cool Whip
20 oz can crushed pineapple
1/2 cup chopped nuts
1/2 cup mini marshmallow
Mix all ingredients in a bowl. Chill. That's it.
Cranberry Orange Salad
6 oz. pack orange jello
1 1/2 cups boiling water
1 16 oz. can jellied cranberry sauce
1 8 3/4 oz can crushed pineapple, drained
1/2 cup diced celery
Dissolve jello in boiling water, add cranberry sauce. Chill until thickened; stir in pineapple and celery. Pour into mold and chill until firm. If it makes you feel healthier, unmold "onto crisp salad greens."
p.s. I am aware the Watergate Salad is technically not a jello salad, but I lump all the jello/pudding/canned fruit/cool whip concoctions into that class. And it's my blog :)
When I went to the supermarket this week, I ventured down the candy aisle, because we may have a camp out this weekend, and camp outs require S'mores, which require marshmallows. Then I decided to check the back of the mini marshmallow bag to see if they had a receipe for Rice Krispy bars. (I have tried to make Rice Krispy bars without a recipe, and it was a complete failure). Not only did the bag have a Rice Krispy recipe, it also had the recipe for Watergate Salad.
If you've never had Watergate Salad, just wait till the end of this column, because I'm going to give you the recipe, and it's so easy. I still remember the first time I ate it. It wasn't at home; my mother never made Watergate Salad in her life. She cooked mostly out of the More-With-Less Cookbook, which, in its chapter on salads, sternly informed the reader that "Too many salad recipes read like dessert - gelatin mix, whipped cream, sweetened canned fruit ..." When we had jello, it was made with orange juice and plain gelatin, or had carrots in it. Just not the same. That being said, she made great chocolate cake and chocolate chip cookies on a regular basis, so I don't hold the orange juice jello against her.
Grandma Rhoda was different, and it was in the little brick rancher on Sprecher Road (which always smelled like fresh bread) that I first ate Watergate Salad. We had gone there for dinner on Sunday, into that tidy house with the corner china closet, the chenille-like sofa with the afghan draped over the back, the painted china lamp, and upholstered rocking chair. We all sat down around the table, which had been moved into the living room, and extended its full length. I don't remember the rest of the menu, but based on what she served over the years it was probably ham, ham loaf or roast turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, succotash made with home frozen corn and lima beans, a cut glass platter of celery, perhaps sweet potato croquettes, buttered noodles, and angel food cake. There was also a glass bowl of something strangely light green: "Watergate Salad." One bite of the Cool Whip, pistachio pudding, marshmallow and nuts, and I loved it. From that time on, I looked for this concoction at every reunion and fellowship meal, and gleefully helped myself.
Fast forward to the early years of marriage, when I borrowed mom's cookbooks. In the salad chapter of the Black Rock cookbook, what should I find but my old friend, Watergate Salad. I hadn't realized how easy it was to make, and proudly made a bowlful for us that week. Nate liked it but wasn't crazy about it, and I decided it had better remain an occasional treat, or I'd eat way too much.
Most of the time I try to eat healthfully, and avoid jello and instant pudding, which, let's face it, is pretty much pure sugar. But there are times when my inner Mennonite cannot be denied; times when a meal feels a little skimpy, and needs something to round it out, times when life seems the better for a touch of sweetness. In that light, I present my two favorite jello salad recipes. If it makes you feel better, call them dessert.
Watergate Salad:
3 1/2 oz pack pistachio instant pudding
9 oz container Cool Whip
20 oz can crushed pineapple
1/2 cup chopped nuts
1/2 cup mini marshmallow
Mix all ingredients in a bowl. Chill. That's it.
Cranberry Orange Salad
6 oz. pack orange jello
1 1/2 cups boiling water
1 16 oz. can jellied cranberry sauce
1 8 3/4 oz can crushed pineapple, drained
1/2 cup diced celery
Dissolve jello in boiling water, add cranberry sauce. Chill until thickened; stir in pineapple and celery. Pour into mold and chill until firm. If it makes you feel healthier, unmold "onto crisp salad greens."
p.s. I am aware the Watergate Salad is technically not a jello salad, but I lump all the jello/pudding/canned fruit/cool whip concoctions into that class. And it's my blog :)
The Joys of Jello Salad: Because sometimes Jello makes life better
So here I am after a 2 month hiatus, and what do I choose to write about? Jello salad. Makes perfect sense, right? Follow me on this.
When I went to the supermarket this week, I ventured down the candy aisle, because we may have a camp out this weekend, and camp outs require S'mores, which require marshmallows. Then I decided to check the back of the mini marshmallow bag to see if they had a receipe for Rice Krispy bars. (I have tried to make Rice Krispy bars without a recipe, and it was a complete failure). Not only did the bag have a Rice Krispy recipe, it also had the recipe for Watergate Salad.
If you've never had Watergate Salad, just wait till the end of this column, because I'm going to give you the recipe, and it's so easy. I still remember the first time I ate it. It wasn't at home; my mother never made Watergate Salad in her life. She cooked mostly out of the More-With-Less Cookbook, which, in its chapter on salads, sternly informed the reader that "Too many salad recipes read like dessert - gelatin mix, whipped cream, sweetened canned fruit ..." When we had jello, it was made with orange juice and plain gelatin, or had carrots in it. Just not the same. That being said, she made great chocolate cake and chocolate chip cookies on a regular basis, so I don't hold the orange juice jello against her.
Grandma Rhoda was different, and it was in the little brick rancher on Sprecher Road (which always smelled like fresh bread) that I first ate Watergate Salad. We had gone there for dinner on Sunday, into that tidy house with the corner china closet, the chenille-like sofa with the afghan draped over the back, the painted china lamp, and upholstered rocking chair. We all sat down around the table, which had been moved into the living room, and extended its full length. I don't remember the rest of the menu, but based on what she served over the years it was probably ham, ham loaf or roast turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, succotash made with home frozen corn and lima beans, a cut glass platter of celery, perhaps sweet potato croquettes, buttered noodles, and angel food cake. There was also a glass bowl of something strangely light green: "Watergate Salad." One bite of the Cool Whip, pistachio pudding, marshmallow and nuts, and I loved it. From that time on, I looked for this concoction at every reunion and fellowship meal, and gleefully helped myself.
Fast forward to the early years of marriage, when I borrowed mom's cookbooks. In the salad chapter of the Black Rock cookbook, what should I find but my old friend, Watergate Salad. I hadn't realized how easy it was to make, and proudly made a bowlful for us that week. Nate liked it but wasn't crazy about it, and I decided it had better remain an occasional treat, or I'd eat way too much.
Most of the time I try to eat healthfully, and avoid jello and instant pudding, which, let's face it, is pretty much pure sugar. But there are times when my inner Mennonite cannot be denied; times when a meal feels a little skimpy, and needs something to round it out, times when life seems the better for a touch of sweetness. In that light, I present my two favorite jello salad recipes. If it makes you feel better, call them dessert.
Watergate Salad:
3 1/2 oz pack pistachio instant pudding
9 oz container Cool Whip
20 oz can crushed pineapple
1/2 cup chopped nuts
1/2 cup mini marshmallow
Mix all ingredients in a bowl. Chill. That's it.
Cranberry Orange Salad
6 oz. pack orange jello
1 1/2 cups boiling water
1 16 oz. can jellied cranberry sauce
1 8 3/4 oz can crushed pineapple, drained
1/2 cup diced celery
Dissolve jello in boiling water, add cranberry sauce. Chill until thickened; stir in pineapple and celery. Pour into mold and chill until firm. If it makes you feel healthier, unmold "onto crisp salad greens."
p.s. I am aware the Watergate Salad is technically not a jello salad, but I lump all the jello/pudding/canned fruit/cool whip concoctions into that class. And it's my blog :)
When I went to the supermarket this week, I ventured down the candy aisle, because we may have a camp out this weekend, and camp outs require S'mores, which require marshmallows. Then I decided to check the back of the mini marshmallow bag to see if they had a receipe for Rice Krispy bars. (I have tried to make Rice Krispy bars without a recipe, and it was a complete failure). Not only did the bag have a Rice Krispy recipe, it also had the recipe for Watergate Salad.
If you've never had Watergate Salad, just wait till the end of this column, because I'm going to give you the recipe, and it's so easy. I still remember the first time I ate it. It wasn't at home; my mother never made Watergate Salad in her life. She cooked mostly out of the More-With-Less Cookbook, which, in its chapter on salads, sternly informed the reader that "Too many salad recipes read like dessert - gelatin mix, whipped cream, sweetened canned fruit ..." When we had jello, it was made with orange juice and plain gelatin, or had carrots in it. Just not the same. That being said, she made great chocolate cake and chocolate chip cookies on a regular basis, so I don't hold the orange juice jello against her.
Grandma Rhoda was different, and it was in the little brick rancher on Sprecher Road (which always smelled like fresh bread) that I first ate Watergate Salad. We had gone there for dinner on Sunday, into that tidy house with the corner china closet, the chenille-like sofa with the afghan draped over the back, the painted china lamp, and upholstered rocking chair. We all sat down around the table, which had been moved into the living room, and extended its full length. I don't remember the rest of the menu, but based on what she served over the years it was probably ham, ham loaf or roast turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, succotash made with home frozen corn and lima beans, a cut glass platter of celery, perhaps sweet potato croquettes, buttered noodles, and angel food cake. There was also a glass bowl of something strangely light green: "Watergate Salad." One bite of the Cool Whip, pistachio pudding, marshmallow and nuts, and I loved it. From that time on, I looked for this concoction at every reunion and fellowship meal, and gleefully helped myself.
Fast forward to the early years of marriage, when I borrowed mom's cookbooks. In the salad chapter of the Black Rock cookbook, what should I find but my old friend, Watergate Salad. I hadn't realized how easy it was to make, and proudly made a bowlful for us that week. Nate liked it but wasn't crazy about it, and I decided it had better remain an occasional treat, or I'd eat way too much.
Most of the time I try to eat healthfully, and avoid jello and instant pudding, which, let's face it, is pretty much pure sugar. But there are times when my inner Mennonite cannot be denied; times when a meal feels a little skimpy, and needs something to round it out, times when life seems the better for a touch of sweetness. In that light, I present my two favorite jello salad recipes. If it makes you feel better, call them dessert.
Watergate Salad:
3 1/2 oz pack pistachio instant pudding
9 oz container Cool Whip
20 oz can crushed pineapple
1/2 cup chopped nuts
1/2 cup mini marshmallow
Mix all ingredients in a bowl. Chill. That's it.
Cranberry Orange Salad
6 oz. pack orange jello
1 1/2 cups boiling water
1 16 oz. can jellied cranberry sauce
1 8 3/4 oz can crushed pineapple, drained
1/2 cup diced celery
Dissolve jello in boiling water, add cranberry sauce. Chill until thickened; stir in pineapple and celery. Pour into mold and chill until firm. If it makes you feel healthier, unmold "onto crisp salad greens."
p.s. I am aware the Watergate Salad is technically not a jello salad, but I lump all the jello/pudding/canned fruit/cool whip concoctions into that class. And it's my blog :)
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
You Might Be a Swiss German Mennonite If ...
The inspiration for this post came to me on Saturday night. I had some leftover cooked chicken, and decided to make a casserole, using the white sauce recipe from the More-With-Less Cookbook. I concocted the casserole, put buttered bread crumbs on, and baked it. After eating the first mouthful, it seemed rather bland. Pickles, I thought, that's what this needs. Accordingly, I ran down to the basement, fished the last jar of bread and butter pickles off the shelf, and added them to my plate. As I finished supper, I started thinking about how stereotypically "Mennonite" the whole episode was, from the cookbook I used, to the pickles, to the buttered bread crumbs. This led to a whole list:
You Might Be a Swiss German Mennonite If ...
1. You think home canned peaches or applesauce enhance almost any meal.
2. You own the Mennonite Community Cookbook, the More-With-Less Cookbook, and/or Simply in Season.
3. You've ever dated your fourth or fifth cousin.
4. You can easily trace at least one side of your family back to the 1600s, usually to Switzerland.
5. You grew up doing Buy Fresh, Buy Local.
6. You secretly miss accapella hymn singing.
7. At least one member of your family is still involved in farming.
8. You have a female relative named Esther or Ethel.
9. You always make sure to attend church when there's a fellowship meal.
10. You grew up collecting soap for MCC at summer Bible School.
11. You have put together an MCC relief kit.
12. You feel vaguely guilty each time you shop at WalMart.
13. You never admit to shopping at WalMart.
14. Your family photo albums are an excellent record of the appearance and disappearance of plain dress in the 19th and 20th centuries.
15. Your church library had books by Christmas Carol Kauffman.
16. Someone in your family spends a lot of time in geneaological research, and has produced a "family book."
17. You married someone with the same last name (see number 3).
18. You freeze crazy amounts of corn each summer.
19. Thrift store shopping is entertainment and a sport.
20. You know several people who participated in VS, YES, STAT, or GO with EMM, and you immediately know what these acronyms mean.
21. Your church library had an old copy of the Martyrs Mirror on the top shelf that no one ever looked at.
22. You think pretzels and ice cream are a great Sunday night supper.
23. You chuckled at this list and could easily make your own.
You Might Be a Swiss German Mennonite If ...
1. You think home canned peaches or applesauce enhance almost any meal.
2. You own the Mennonite Community Cookbook, the More-With-Less Cookbook, and/or Simply in Season.
3. You've ever dated your fourth or fifth cousin.
4. You can easily trace at least one side of your family back to the 1600s, usually to Switzerland.
5. You grew up doing Buy Fresh, Buy Local.
6. You secretly miss accapella hymn singing.
7. At least one member of your family is still involved in farming.
8. You have a female relative named Esther or Ethel.
9. You always make sure to attend church when there's a fellowship meal.
10. You grew up collecting soap for MCC at summer Bible School.
11. You have put together an MCC relief kit.
12. You feel vaguely guilty each time you shop at WalMart.
13. You never admit to shopping at WalMart.
14. Your family photo albums are an excellent record of the appearance and disappearance of plain dress in the 19th and 20th centuries.
15. Your church library had books by Christmas Carol Kauffman.
16. Someone in your family spends a lot of time in geneaological research, and has produced a "family book."
17. You married someone with the same last name (see number 3).
18. You freeze crazy amounts of corn each summer.
19. Thrift store shopping is entertainment and a sport.
20. You know several people who participated in VS, YES, STAT, or GO with EMM, and you immediately know what these acronyms mean.
21. Your church library had an old copy of the Martyrs Mirror on the top shelf that no one ever looked at.
22. You think pretzels and ice cream are a great Sunday night supper.
23. You chuckled at this list and could easily make your own.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
We Can Rebuild Her, part 2 (finally!)
Let's see, where was I? Oh yes, thirsty and floating on morphine. Ahem. The rest of the day and night is a blur. I remember being moved to my room, Nate talking to the doctors, me staring down dazedly at all the tubes I was hooked up to, and being thankful that everything was still numb. On Saturday, I was allowed to have some soda and bouillon. University of Penn is a wonderful hospital, but three years ago their food fulfilled every bad hospital stereotype in the book. I didn't think it was possible to make chicken bouillon and jello taste bad, but they managed it. But hey, it was nourishment, of a sort. Since I couldn't sit up unassisted, we spent some time learning how to raise and lower bed so that I could recline. Did I mention that I also had big cuffs (like blood pressure cuffs)wrapped around each leg, massaging them so I wouldn't get blood clots? I'd forgotten about them till this moment. I was a rag doll, propped up on pillows, content, for the moment, to lie there quietly.
Doctors and nurses popped in every few hours. My surgeon came by, and said all had gone well. She asked if a group of residents could come to see me, and I agreed. By this point in the game so many people had seen so much that a few more eyes didn't matter. So a group of cheerful young surgeons in training came in, inspected the six surgical drains, the incisions, listened to Dr. Wu describe part of the surgery, and trooped out. Later that day Nate headed for home, and it was just me, the nurses, and TV. I spent a lot of time watching things like "What Not to Wear" and the soon-to-be-trainwrecked Jon and Kate. Somewhere out there people were having makeovers, living their lives, and raising children. I wanted to be part of that world.
My sister came to visit on Sunday. I ate more horrible jello as we watched TV and talked. Later that day, at least I think it was that day, the nurses told me I would have to get up and walk. What a process. Somehow they got me out of bed and behind a walker, and there I was, hunched over like an 80 year old bald woman, shuffing out of my room and down the hall. A nurse helped me get started, and said to take it slow and do my best. Again, the surrealism of the experience took over. Was this me? A year ago I had been a healthy new mom with a full head of hair. Now ... who was I? A hunched figure in a hospital gown, muttering through gritted teeth "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness."
Perhaps it was seeing all the happy people on TV who were learning what to wear, or perhaps the drugs were wearing off, but for whatever reason, Monday was a low point. The day started out well, with a visit from a woman I had met on some cancer forums. She'd had a similar surgery in the same hospital less than a year earlier, and she drove all the way from New Jersey to meet me in person. She brought a care package, and was full of encouragement. A Muslim woman, she blogged for about a year after this, then disappeared from the internet, so we never met again. Khala Jan, if you're still out there, I don't know if I ever thanked you for your kindness. I truly hope to see you again.
After she left, I was able to get up and use the bathroom for a few minutes, where I could look in a mirror for the first time. The surgeon did an incredible job, but the reality of the scars, bandages, drains and my own helplessness hit me full force. A sweet nurse found me, 15 minutes later, still sobbing. She helped me back into bed and assured me that I would indeed recover, and all would be well. I made an effort to trust that she was right. I also resolved not to look in the mirror for at least a week.
Next time, "Moving On"
Doctors and nurses popped in every few hours. My surgeon came by, and said all had gone well. She asked if a group of residents could come to see me, and I agreed. By this point in the game so many people had seen so much that a few more eyes didn't matter. So a group of cheerful young surgeons in training came in, inspected the six surgical drains, the incisions, listened to Dr. Wu describe part of the surgery, and trooped out. Later that day Nate headed for home, and it was just me, the nurses, and TV. I spent a lot of time watching things like "What Not to Wear" and the soon-to-be-trainwrecked Jon and Kate. Somewhere out there people were having makeovers, living their lives, and raising children. I wanted to be part of that world.
My sister came to visit on Sunday. I ate more horrible jello as we watched TV and talked. Later that day, at least I think it was that day, the nurses told me I would have to get up and walk. What a process. Somehow they got me out of bed and behind a walker, and there I was, hunched over like an 80 year old bald woman, shuffing out of my room and down the hall. A nurse helped me get started, and said to take it slow and do my best. Again, the surrealism of the experience took over. Was this me? A year ago I had been a healthy new mom with a full head of hair. Now ... who was I? A hunched figure in a hospital gown, muttering through gritted teeth "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness."
Perhaps it was seeing all the happy people on TV who were learning what to wear, or perhaps the drugs were wearing off, but for whatever reason, Monday was a low point. The day started out well, with a visit from a woman I had met on some cancer forums. She'd had a similar surgery in the same hospital less than a year earlier, and she drove all the way from New Jersey to meet me in person. She brought a care package, and was full of encouragement. A Muslim woman, she blogged for about a year after this, then disappeared from the internet, so we never met again. Khala Jan, if you're still out there, I don't know if I ever thanked you for your kindness. I truly hope to see you again.
After she left, I was able to get up and use the bathroom for a few minutes, where I could look in a mirror for the first time. The surgeon did an incredible job, but the reality of the scars, bandages, drains and my own helplessness hit me full force. A sweet nurse found me, 15 minutes later, still sobbing. She helped me back into bed and assured me that I would indeed recover, and all would be well. I made an effort to trust that she was right. I also resolved not to look in the mirror for at least a week.
Next time, "Moving On"
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