Brushing Up on Motherhood Skills

I was reading through my morning facebook posts, checking up on what my friends and loved ones were up to today, before heading out.
  
Daniel and Sam and Zoan all had birthdays, so celebrations were in order. 

Astrid posted a photo from her location on vacation in Puerto Rico, which made me jealous and long for St. Croix.  


And still awaiting word that my niece, Tana's baby has made his/her arrival into this wold as we are past due date - maybe holding out for my daughter, Erin's birthday on the 4th?

And then I came upon this picture.  


A photo my daughter, Jenn, took of her son, Gavin, when he was just a couple of months old at the pumpkin patch.  


What was even sweeter was the blog entry that followed...

"I was on my hands and knees cleaning up a bowl of spilt Special K....Gavin comes up behind me and starts brushing my hair.


 It was so soft and so sweet. “What a good job you are doing. You’re being so nice. Good job Gavin.”

He keeps brushing as I continue to clean up. 


After about thirty seconds or so, he comes around in front ...and puts the toilet bowl brush down on the floor in front of me."


...And the torch is passed.  In ooohhh, so many ways!  

My beautiful Jenn who thinks we have nothing in common....


My Jenn, the artist, the photographer, the blogger, and now the mother....


She may just begin to know and understand me just a little bit one of these days......now that her road as a woman and a mother has just begun.  


We are not so very different after all (big smile.)  

I'm so happy you are happy, Jen, and can't wait to see Gavin one of these days.

Love you forever,
   ...as long as you're living,
      ...my baby, you'll be.


               -- Mom

Life's Not Fair

I always hated it when people said that to me when I was young. And I am sure my children must have hated it just as much when they came to me with a problem like “Her piece of cake is bigger!” or “How come Nick gets to be in a music video and we don't?"

So often in life we don’t get what we want, and sometimes it makes us raise our voices in anger, or cry and whine. Sometimes it makes us rise above.

I’ve tried through life to rise above the unfairness of things I’ve had to face. Of the injustices or slights I have felt that came my way. 

Often I’ve been successful, and other times I’ve failed miserably. Thank goodness there have been second chances for some of the failures and I’ve been able to learn and grow and accept.

If you read The Time Will Come, you will know that after over a decade of separation from my youngest daughter (and I’ve failed miserably on accepting that particular ‘it’s not fair’ in my life) I got a message from her saying she would like to have lunch with me sometime in the near future. It was probably the happiest day of my life.

Well, it wasn’t but three days later that I went to the doctor for this nagging pain in my back. I’ve had back pain most of my life; no doubt from being bucked off too many horses or getting kicked in the back in mid air after one bucked me off at age twelve. Or from my one and only motorcycle accident, as minor as it was.

But this pain was in a totally different place – right at the middle of my back. And there was a huge lump on my spine. I chalked it up to the arthritis in my back (no doubt brought on from the above mishaps in life.) Well, that and the fact that age and hard physical labor have dried up the disks in my back as well.

I thought it was a very bad misalignment of my spine after six months of walking around on a damaged knee last year (see my U-haul story.)

The doctor ordered x-rays. And when she slid those x-rays up on the light box, even I could see that all was not right (after helping the doctor I used to work for read so many x-rays.) Visible proof that life is not fair.
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The first thing that jumped out at me was the large, ghostly white shadow emanating from the vertebrae (backbones) at the place where the upper back and lower back meet. Right at the point of the pain.

I was busy focusing on that when the doctor pointed out that the upper vertebra itself was slightly crushed down on the front part of it, apparently with multiple tiny fractures on the bone.

She said it would not be unusual in someone

twenty years older than me. But was very unexpected in someone my age.

She told me that there appeared to be a large tumor on the spine (indicating the ghostly white shadow I’d seen right off the bat.)

Then she said she was referring me for an MRI, a colonoscopy, a consult with an orthopedic oncologist (bone doctor specializing in cancer.) Then she ordered almost a dozen blood lab tests.

I know enough about medicine to know that several of the tests she ordered were for cancer screening.

She said (which I already knew) that a tumor at this location was highly unlikely to have originated in the spine, but most likely metastasized from somewhere else in the body – quite possibly the liver or the ovaries. 

Life is not fair.

In that case, it would be considered stage four and would most likely be spread throughout the body and be terminal. 

Life is so unfair.

I’ve lost enough friends and loved ones who were diagnosed with late stage cancer that I knew what that meant. Some had ten months to live, others less than one.

Surprisingly, I did not panic at the thought; the fact of my mortality. I realized that I actually did not fear dying. After all, the “after all” is such a great promise.

  I’ve had enough hurdles and roadblocks thrown in my path to just sort of expect the least expected. And this was certainly the most unexpected of them all. But then again... 
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Life is not fair.

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I said I didn’t fear the thought of dying. But I was indeed filled with fear. I feared not for myself, but for my children. The thought of having to tell my son just rent my very soul. How could I ever lay this at the feet of the man I love most in this world?

The thought threw me into an actual, hysterical panic attack. And that is not an easy thing to do. I am generally known as one who can face most anything. I finally found a task for which I just did not have the courage.

And there I was, face to face with another one of my life’s greatest fears:

After my daughters were ripped out of my life (at the ages of 10 and 12), I used to always tell my son, Nick, that I was so afraid that I wouldn’t ever see them again. That I was afraid I’d die before that day. 

And I made him promise, time and again, that if I did, he would let them know how much I loved them.

So last Saturday when Erin gave me the hope of a reunion, it was the most wonderful day of my life. Who would have known it would be followed three days later by one of the worst days of my life?

I didn’t fear death for me, but for what it might mean to the lives of my children.

I wanted to wait until after the test results came back so I would know exactly what we were up against. But after I had my anxiety attack/melt down in front of a very large gathering of dear friends four days later, I was put into the position to have to tell Nick. And it nearly tore me apart. I didn’t want him to find out I’d told others before him.

So with my dear friend Lili, I immediately tracked down Nick and broke the news to him, silently reminding him that “Life is not fair.”

And so I changed my plans for the near future. Instead of going to the gym religiously, I became obsessed with finishing projects and tying up loose ends.

 

I found a friend who said she would help me finish up the nearly completed quilt tops I am making – each one an heirloom for each of my children to someday pass down to their children.  I have almost finished the tops, but still have to have them professionally stitched.

I started working on a list of Friday Night Stories I could set to automatically post over the next few months, so that I would have something to share with my readers.

Instead of working in the garden, I began deciding which of my possessions I should get rid of now before I got worse – in order to make the “clean up” easier after I was gone.

My thoughts of scanning all the old family photos to be sure they would all be shared with all of my siblings and my children suddenly became more urgent.

After days of blood-letting, tests and exams, I went to the scariest appointment: the MRI. 

 

Not scary so much because I am claustrophobic and passion-
ately dread the tight confines of the MRI tube, but because this would give us a precise picture of the tumor(s) location(s).

This would erase any ability to pretend it wasn’t so. It would guarantee beyond all doubt that “Life is not fair.”

Nick came down to go with me to the appointment, giving me strength. 

Crammed inside that tunnel, with my arms touching the sides, and the top just inches from my face, I tried desperately not to panic. But an hour is a long, long time to lie still and pretend the confines weren’t pressing in on me.

So finally, the next day, with the CD containing the MRI images of the tumors, I arrived at the orthopedic oncologist’s office. I waited interminably in the waiting room with others who just had fractured wrist bones or arms in casts. A gentle reminder that “Life is not fair.”

Finally they showed me into an exam room. After what seemed like an eternity, the doctor came in, having already studied the MRI images and said he didn’t see the tumor on the MRI. It showed severe degenerative disc disease and considerably more arthritis than one should ever have at my age, but he saw no tumors.

He asked to see the x-rays that I had brought with me. And as soon as he slipped them up on the light box and saw the large white shadow. He actually said, “Wow!"  Then he excused himself saying he had to go back and take a second look at the MRI.

As it turned out there was no tumor. The huge, ghostly white shadow was actually the manifestation of the other two problems.

The disc had virtually disappeared between the two vertebrae (back bones) at the site where the pain way. So I basically had bone on bone. 

So my body had just instinct-
ively done its best to fix things. With the disc gone, and the arthritis having worn down the bones, the body had kicked into overdrive, laying layer after layer of calcium down on the damaged area in an attempt to fuse the two bones together.  And the back muscle surrounding the area had filled with calcium (tiny grains of bone, basically) in an effort to strengthen and heal the area.

The calcium showed up as a huge, white tumor-like shadow surrounding the entire area of the two vertebrae that we saw in the
x-rays.  

False alarm.

I cannot begin to tell you the relief I felt after more than a week of anguish. And how foolish I’d felt.  There are still a bucket load of problems with the spine, but it's not cancer!

All of that worry and panic and changing of plans was totally unnecessary. Life was to go on as usual.

And I was left to think about all the changes I’d made in my plans.

But I realized that the trivial things I thought important in my daily life were actually insignificant in the big picture.

Why is it that we let the mundane-ness of daily life get in the way of what God has really put us on this earth to do? Why are so we so easily diverted from the things that really are important?

And I am reminded once again of the thought I ended with in The Time Will Come. Satan often waits until the moments when we are most lulled into a place of comfort and contentment before he hits us with the big whammies. He likes to catch us the most off guard we can be.

So I guess this week’s thoughts are two-fold again. First of all, that we shouldn’t let daily life distract us from the important things in life - our true path.

And secondly that we should always be vigilant, for Satan can spring things on us at any time. And he will often choose the moments when we are most content to catch us off guard.

The Time Will Come

“Who are you texting to?” Pam asked, walking into my room Saturday morning.  “I thought you and Gary weren’t speaking.”

I pushed send and told her it wasn't Gary - I think she had been living vicariously through me during our brief reunion. 

It was a message to my younger daughter.

“I didn’t know you were communicating with her,” she said in surprise.  

To which I replied, “I’m not. Well, I’m communicating with her, she’s just not communicating back.”  And I actually was able to smile when I said it this time.

I got a brief text from my daughter on Valentines day a year ago - that's 14 months ago.

It blew me out of the water as I’d not seen nor heard from her in eleven years – the result of horrible post-divorce squabbles with her father and many months and years of lies and misinformation.

And as always, I’ve just tried to walk the tightrope between letting her know that I love her deeply and want to see her, and frightening her off into another decade of separation.

So I’ve tried to limit my communicating to a minimum, fearful that I would frighten her away.  I invited her to come join us at Thanksgiving.  And texted her on Nick’s birthday as a reminder (two weeks later) – an excuse to reach out to her.

I wished her a Merry Christmas, and again a Happy New Year.  I made up some excuses in January, but can’t remember what any longer.

I wrote her on her birthday in early February, saying I owed her a birthday lunch any time any day.  No response.  But I hadn't expected one.  How does one expect a young lady to overcome a decade of separation and mistrust?

Then I knew that her spring break was coming up and sent her another note saying I didn’t want to be pushy, but her coupon for a birthday lunch had no expiration date.  

And she was welcome to bring her boyfriend or anyone else.

No response.

With her vacation coming to an end this past weekend, I thought I’d give it another try.  I invited her again, hoping that she, my son Nick  and I could get together.  

Finally, Saturday morning as I got ready to go meet Nick for lunch (and to pick up my long-loaned and long-missed camera!) I sent her another text telling her the time and place we’d be meeting for lunch in case she wanted to come by.  

Just in case.

I had absolutely no expectation that she would reply or join us.  But even after all these years, I am still foolishly hopeful at times.

And half way to meet Nick for lunch, stuck in bumper to bumper traffic on the 405 freeway, my phone began to buzz at me.

I figured it was just Gary, and was  frustrated that he’d be texting me as I've decided we're just not going to work out as we both want different things.

I figured I’d just ignore it.  But the darn thing keeps buzzing at me every few minutes until I picked it up.

So I quickly flipped it open and then closed it again just to shut it up.


Then I realized that now that I'd stopped it buzzing, it would nag at me wondering what he'd said.  So I picked it up and took a peek just so I could get it off my mind.

And lo and behold a message from my Erin!!!  

It said, “Actually have two BBQs to attend today, but I would like to do lunch sometime in the near future.”

I had to covertly flip the poor phone open  a dozen times on the rest of the drive to meet Nick – just to be sure I didn’t imagine it.  But there it was!

It was the happiest day of my life, I think.  Maybe even more so than the actual births of my children – which were incredibly amazing moments.

But I think the difference is that the pregnancies had all had an expected, guaranteed, definite contact date – give or take two weeks.  

All of them were all pretty much exactly on the due date – except Jen whose delivery we sped up a couple of days with my kicking a soccer ball around a huge park.   Her father didn't want to take a day off of work for the delivery!

But in this case with Erin, there was no expected or guaranteed delivery date.  There was no assurance of a light at the end of the tunnel.  No guarantee of ever seeing her again.  No guarantee of anything.  Just endless hoping and trying not to hope.  Of waiting patiently and crying when the patience ran out.

And there it was – written in black and white!  I was just over the moon.

I had lunch with Nick and then went over to Zack's new condo

where they live along with Zack's cousin.  I got the grand tour and had a good time with 'my boys,' as Zack has always been like a second son to me and they are like brothers.

Then I headed back down toward home, still in amaze
-ment.  (Nick and Zack live about an hour north of me up against the foothills of the San Gabriel mountains, and I live down near the coast.)

Driving along, smiling from ear to ear, I realized I had a few hours of daylight left and time on my hands.  

And after a lengthy separation, I also now had my camera by my side.



So I decided to go walk on the beach.

Even though we live so close to the beach, I never really have the chance to walk slowly and silently along, enjoying the rejuvenation of the beach.  

I always have my roommate and neighbor in tow.  If I go, they have to go too.

Not that I mind.  But they want to just walk on the pier and go home, or maybe even just walk a short bit on the asphalt bike path that runs for miles and miles along southern California beach line.

But never the get-your-feet wet, feel-the-foam-around-your-
ankles kind of walk.  

So with my newly returned camera in hand, I parked the car, took off my tennies and slung them over my shoulders.  

And then I walked in the sand.

I stopped for a while to watch the volleyball players in the sand. 
  
(There are dozens of nets with hundreds of first- come-first-served players enjoying them.) 

And I snapped a few pictures.

Then I walked down along the pier’s pilings to the water line and hit the water's
edge.  

The toes squishing and scrunching in the wet sand, the wind in my hair.  

I was surrounded by little kids playing in the sand, big kids playing football.  

Women and small children  looked for shells.  

Lovers strolled hand in hand, and yet others beach- goers watched the surfers.

I strolled along, observing people – one of my favorite pastimes.  

I talked to a few people as I went along - com- menting on their sand castles; admiring their babies.

And then I photographed others at random.  
I loved it!

And along the way, between photo- graphs, I even picked up a few shells of my own.  


I found some clams, a few scallops and some mussels.

And all the time thinking of Erin and smiling at the thought that she didn’t hate me any more.

After waiting all these years, I might see her  "sometime in the near future." 

Words just haven't been invented yet to explain the feeling that kind of hope brings! 

It's better than winning the lottery and meeting Prince Charming on the same day!

I even stopped a stranger and asked him to take a photo of me.  

And that is really saying something, as I absolutely hate being in front of the camera.  

But this was a day to commemorate!  I wanted a photo of me - fat or ugly or not - to remember this day.

It was such a beautiful day that I walked farther than I should have.  

Reluctantly, I turned around and headed back, shoes slung over my shoulder, my hand full of shells.  

And reaching the pier, I sadly put on my shoes and socks and headed home.

I spent the rest of the evening and long into the night editing the 278 photos I took.

This involved mostly just the slow job of shrinking the good ones down to size so they could go on the internet and deleting the not so good ones.

And when I woke the next morning, I should have had a huge smile on my face.  But the burning pain all through my low back and hips precluded that.  

My long, slow, joyous walk on the beach set every joint in my low back in flames.  Surprisingly not the muscles – just the joints.

I am indeed getting old.  I’ve had the inflammatory problem for decades – even long before the girls were ripped from my life. 

But not doing anything as laborious as my long walk on the beach has lulled me into a sense of false security.  It was just waiting for a serious chance to flare up.

So this week’s story has a two-fold lesson, I guess. 

The first lesson being that sometimes waiting patiently pays off. Though it may seem interminable at the time, the answer to the prayer will come.  And you have to realize that sometimes the answer is going to be "not yet."

There is no guarantee how long the wait will be.  But at the right time, God will supply your needs.

And the second being that Satan sometimes lures us into a sense of false security.  He’ll give you periods of apparently peaceful living lulling you into that sense of well-being. 
  

And all of the sudden “bam!” he hits you in your vulnerability – just as the peace- ful, joyous walk in the sand did me.  

Only with Satan, it can’t be relieved with ibuprofen. 

Only God’s love can overcome the kind of pain you’ll find when waking up after Satan’s painful punishment.


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