Promise Me

Through the years we have had different kids live with us. My boys had many friends that simply needed a safe place to land "for a minute." Interestingly, the boys I MOST worried about came through with flying colors. One moved on to ROCK college and continue on to Graduate School. The other has a family and works hard to provide a stable home environment. They have grown into respectable young men heading down paths that will lead to success. I'm proud of who they are and what they have accomplished.  Whew! Load off my shoulders.

The other day I pulled up Facebook and read the following post:

If I can live a junkie life, I can live the homeless life. Did it at age 14, so i can do this again

I have had this stupid post on my mind. Not just a little bit. A whole bunch. I worked in the yard all weekend and my thoughts kept drifting to my friend and this post.

Tiny lived with us for a small stretch. You would have to look him in the eyes to see what I see. BUT I see him. I do. He is such a good kid. The world is simply waiting for him to take hold and become the hero in his own story.

There was a small stretch of time when my boys lost friends to drugs, alcohol, even suicide. They have been pall bearers and were forced to say goodbye and place their friends in the ground. Heartbreaking is not nearly a strong enough word. But it WAS heartbreaking.

When I went to Jordan's funeral, Tiny was there. After the services, he walked up to give me a hug. Imagine his surprise when instead of wrapping my arms around him, I kicked him. Hard. In the shins. 

I told him I wasn't doing this again. I'm not. I'm not. I'm not. I won't watch him destroy himself. I won't attend another funeral. I won't bury him. Ain't gonna happen.

So, Tiny, knock it off. I'm serious. See what I see. Believe in yourself like my family believes in you. 

Christopher Robin said to Pooh:

“Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think."

Tiny. If you are reading this...I believe in you.

Timing is Everything

I got an email from Pat last week. She said:

A little background here. I have been feeling a tightness and pain around my ribs. I’ve complained about it to my drs.
The plastic surgeon sent me for an xray. Nothing there. 
So, I’ve suffered through for a month or so, Still not going away so I call my gp and ask for any other thing that will help. He sends me in for a ct scan on Mon. Uvrmc.No call on Tues. Then his nurse finally calls me back. Blake wants to see you in the office - yesterday.That was around 3.  I finally buzz up there around 4ish.Blake reports that there is something on my sternam. The tech writes ‘mass indicated on sternum. Metastasization conducive to breast cancer.So, Blake says not to panic or think the worst, we will not know for sure until they do some testing/biopsy. However, he gives me a hug when I’m leaving and says don’t worry too much about it. It’ll get all ironed out. After several tries got a hold of the oncologist’s office. Spoke to the dr. he says he has looked at the scans. They see two lesions on the lung and one on the sternum. I have an appt later today to talk to him about the CT scan and scheduling a biopsy.

I haven't seen Pat in a while. Life gets in the way and my days slip into weeks which slip into months and I find that I haven't done a single thing that I vow to do. Ugh.

Saturday, I made time and went to a matinee with Pat.

She's sick.

Yesterday I asked her what her oncologist said. She told me that the focus will be to keep her as comfortable as possible. Radiation to see if they can get her pain level down. Then chemo to see if any of the tumors can be kept at bay for a time. 

I'm pissed. Okay, I'm sad but most mostly I'm mad. Beyond words. 

In 2011 the movie Country Strong hit the theaters. Because I love movies, popcorn, and Tim McGraw, (not necessarily in that order) I headed to the local Cinemark a couple of weeks after it was released. I VERY MUCH liked the movie and when it was released to DVD, I promptly bought it. 

In the beginning of the movie, Beau and Kelly (Garrett Hedlund and Gwyneth Paltrow) are writing/singing a song about timing. 

Makes me think. What if I hadn't moved into those apartments? Many stars aligned to place me there. Mark and I divorced. I moved to Montana. I decided to go to school and I moved back. I landed in those apartments. 

I was sad to be divorced. I was scared to go to school. I was busy with little kids. I needed a good friend.

I met Babbette. We became friends. Good friends. I met Calleen. We became friends. Good friends. I met Donna. We became friends. Good friends. And I met Pat. We became friends. Good friends. 

Makes me think that there really is a purpose to the little things. Through heartache and sadness, I met some of the most wonderful people. Pat is one of them. 

I have dear friends. I have been blessed with wonderful relationships that transcend time. Timing is everything.

Well, you can call it fate

or destiny.

Sometimes it really seems like

it's a mystery.

Cause you can be hurt by love 

or healed by the same.

Timing is everything.

Diviine Intervention

Nope. I didn't spell it wrong. I spelled it Diviine because, quite simply, that's how you spell it.

I have had a client for many years now. She owns a company that creates and sells modest clothing in Utah. Trust me. It's a BIG DEAL in Utah. The majority is LDS and it is extremely difficult for the members of the church to find clothing that is modest as well as stylish and fashinable. Diviine Modestee has done that. Brilliantly. You can check out her stuff at diviinemodestee.com.

Tiring of the search for modest swim wear, Chantelle developed a line called Divinita Sole and I get to design the fabric for the suits. I love, love, LOVE it. It's fun to go to the pool and see a swimsuit and think "Oh! I designed that!" In fact, when Dawn took me on my "Get-away Extravaganza" to California last year, we were basking on the beach in Catalina and a suit passed that I recognized. When I asked the wearer of that suit where she got her swimsuit, she gushed on and on about this wonderful company that creates these amazing clothes and it was SO FUN to say "I designed that fabric." Made my day!

I imagine that you know this blog isn't about clothing. It's about me. Duh.

When I was fired from Studies Weekly, I lost all of my benefits. Suck. The timing of it all has been immensely stressful and I have spent many, MANY hours wrapped in fret and worry about my inability to help financially. The interesting sidekick of this disease is that the symptoms worsen when compounded by stress. My doc has explained that my brain can't exactly multi-task any longer. I concentrate on the simple things that YOU PEOPLE do without thinking. You know. Stuff like walking, and talking, and sitting, and standing. Therefore, when stress enters into the picture and my brain wants to process it, my walking and talking and sitting and standing pay the price. I don't exactly know how to prevent this. Stress surrounds us. All of us. So I'll wobble and stumble and stress. And maybe, somehow, it will work out perfectly fine.

My doctor has pushed and pushed for me to attend physical therapy and speech therapy. The last time I saw her, she asked if I had been going and I had to tell her about losing my job and my benefits and that I would not be able to attend any therapy. To say she was dismayed is an understatement. Therapy is very important in keeping some of these symptoms at bay for a longer period of time. Too bad for me. Can't afford it. Not going. Period.

A few weeks later, Chantelle called to schedule a meeting about some graphics. Since I am unable to hide some of my symptoms any longer, when we met, I told her what was going on. She sat right here at my desk. Right beside me. And cried.

Two weeks later, my Diviine Intervention came in the form of an email. Chantelle wrote:

...I have not gotten you off my mind since we saw each other and constant urge has come to help you.  I talked to my accountant and I have the approval to go ahead.  I will need to pay the therapist directly but all bills can be paid...

Could this REALLY be true?  Do I really get to go to speech and physical therapy? In one word...YUP! I have gone to one session and will going to my second today.

We're all learning together right now. This disease (although rampant in my biological family) is very rare. My therapists have been doing research to find what I'll be needing and how best to help me. They are kind and helpful and easy to talk to. I'm excited to see if this old dog can learn new tricks. 

It seems that I am destined to be the beneficiary of some pretty amazing gifts. I dream of being the benefactor and hope to pay each act forward some day. Sigh. I am grateful beyond words. My family is excited and hopeful and ohsovery grateful for the love and kindness offered to us.

Just when you think the world is black...

Who knew? Right?

The Native Way

Diana is Navajo. Pretty cool, huh? I've always thought that Diana is one of the most beautiful people I know. Tall, thin, dark skin, straight hair, beautiful smile. Sigh. Imagine my happiness when Tyson picked her to be his companion for life. Happy, happy, happy!

There was a pow wow at BYU last week end. I have known about the pow wows. Apparantly they travel around and a couple times a year they land at BYU. When Tyson and Goose were young, they used to attend the pow wow with the Nakai family. However, the pow wow remained something that the kids did and I have never attended one.

When Diana mentioned that she was making jingle dresses for Hailey and Madison (Haileys cousin from Diana's sister) to wear to the pow wow, I told her this was the year that I wanted to go. Diana always gracefully and enthusiastically says "okay" but I don't know if she is really thinking "Oh crap." Regardless, I went and I am OHSOGLAD that I went. Wow.

I don't know what I expected. There were natives dressed in the most elaborate costumes I have ever seen. It was the most amazingly, beautiful thing. For being a gal so full of words to say, I find myself at a loss to truly describe the enormity of my emotion I felt upon seeing the beauty and honor in our native family.

According to powwow.com:

Pow Wows are the Native American people’s way of meeting together, to join in dancing, singing, visiting, renewing old friendships, and making new ones.  This is a time method to renew Native American culture and preserve the rich heritage of American Indians.

I witnessed 9 singing groups. Okay, I'll be honest here. It sounded a bit like hollering in the beginning, but as the day wore on, I was able to recognize the different languages within the hollering. During one of the songs, Donna (Diana's mom) mentioned that she loved when the women joined in the song. Because I was so riveted by the dancing, I hadn't noticed. The next time women joined the singing group, I paid attention. It WAS beautiful.

So much of what our native ancestors did held deep meaning and purpose. Donna pointed a variety of tradition within the dances.

What really struck me, aside from the beauty of the costumes, the dancing, the singing, was the solemn honor each member felt for each other and the traditions that were being celebrated. A dance was performed for friendship. At one point, there was a ceremony to honor those that were graduating from college. They presented each student a gift. A line of graduates was formed and anyone who wished to offer their congratulations could do so. The line of well-wishers was enormous.

I admire the honor within our native american culture. I love the reverence held for our earth and the animals and plants that reside here. I don't think they had it wrong. I think we "white men" do. I believe that if we truly honored where we come from, our respect for ourselves and others would grow.  A native proverb states:

"Treat the earth well: it was not given to you by your parents, it was loaned to you by your children. We do not inherit the Earth from our Ancestors, we borrow it from our Children."

I love that Diana is in our family. I love that she is teaching her kids the native way. I love that her family honors the native tradition. I love that I will have the opportunity to learn from that honor.

Crowfoot, a warrior and orator said:

"What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset."

Yep. Beautiful.

The Business of Strangers

During one of my visits to the doctor, I was awarded with the paperwork to get a handicap placard for my jeep.  Because I was having a hard time wrapping my brain around ME needing that stupid handicap sign, I hung on to the paperwork and didn't do a dang thing about it.

The snow came and brought different challenges. I decided that I had better get the placard and keep it on hand in case I needed it. I had ABSOLUTELY NO intention of hanging it in my jeep. No way. No way. NO WAY.

I hung it up in my jeep.

I use it when only absolutely necessary. On sunny days, I park as far from the door as possible. I'm terrified of the day when I can't walk, so of course I over compensate and walk as long and far as I can. However, I find it difficult to maneuver in the rain and snow. Those are the days that I dig into my console (and my pride) and hang the placard on my mirror for the world to see.

The other day I went to grab some groceries. I try really hard to keep the staples of the Deason kitchen stocked because I HATE grocery shopping and avoid it until there is absolutely NOTHING in the house to eat.

One of our local grocery stores had a case lot sale, so off I went to get veggies and soup to put in the storage room.

Since I knew I would be wrangling a cart with a few cases of food and I had a vision of the cart getting away from me and zooming toward a small child and onlookers screaming at me to "RUN, GET THE CART" and me moving as fast as my wobbly legs will go and yelling back "I AM running",  I decided to park in the handicap parking.

This is where this story begins.

I made it through the grocery store without incident and was heading back to my jeep when I spotted a couple standing right beside my door.  I didn't recognize them, so I didn't give it much thought. I was making mental preparations to load the groceries when the woman began yelling. At first, I was taken aback and glanced around to see who she was hollering at when the realization hit that she was railing at ME. I began to hear bits and pieces about "parking in the handicap parking when I don't need it". She let me have her mind and wasn't too nice about it. I heard something to the effect of "lazy" and "stealing my poor mothers handicap sticker" and "Look at me. I'm old and I park WAY back there to keep the spaces open for people that REALLY need it" and blah, blah, blah.

I unloaded the groceries from my cart without saying a word. Trust me. I had visions of tackling her and punching her square in her mouth and messing up her perfectly coiffed hair and pulling her perfectly manicured fingernails out with pliers and gluing her fake eyelashes closed with super glue. I didn't. I simply said "For some reason, my doctor thinks that having a brain disease constitutes owning a handicap placard. I will be glad to give you her number if you would like to talk to her about it." She looked at me blankly. Her mouth was still flapping but no words were coming out.

I excused myself, got in the jeep and drove away.

I made it to the edge of the parking lot and called Mark. Sobbing.

I was and still AM disgusted about the entire situation.

A few years back I read or heard a story about a man and his children in a restaurant having a bite to eat. I don't remember if the kids were disorderly or disruptive or if a fellow diner was simply bratty.  However it came to be, the man was confronted about his children.

His response? "I'm so sorry. The kids were just at the hospital and had to say goodbye to their mother. She just died today, and I'm a bit distracted."

I learned a LONG TIME ago that everyone has a story. We are all going through some kind of muck.  I get aggravated to hear the words "I wouldn't do that" or "She should..." or "I would..."  or "Why didn't they..." Whatever. Maybe we're all just doing the best we can with the tools that we have.

"Walk a mile in my moccasins and 

you will know my journey"

My Deepest Fear

When Keith passed away I spoke at his funeral. I've always related to the movie Coach Carter. Every single time I watch it, I think of some of my boys' friends. You know. The ones that are superstars and they refuse to be that because life got in the way of their self esteem. I had an opportunity to tell these kids that they were "better than that". It just happened to come at a time that I was facing one of my greatest losses.

The funeral was planned, clothes were washed and readied and I needed to condense a lifetime of cherished memories and moments and put them on paper in just a few words. Throughout the "funeral planning" process, my thoughts had wandered to Coach Carter and the quote that he was determined to ingrain in a wayward boy. Throughout the movie, a young man became the focus of Coach Carters' question "Son, what is your deepest fear?" Timo would simply stare back while shaking his head in wonderment as if to say "this man is CRAZY. What the crap is he talking about?". As the crowning point of the movie approaches, the viewer witnesses the young man stand and say:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine just as children do. It's not just in some of us;  it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

This quote had turned over and over in my head throughout the week, so when the time came to write my tribute, I dug out the movie, found the quote, paused and typed, paused and typed until I had it exactly as it was said in the movie.

I don't know if what I said made any kind of an impact. I said what I wanted to say. And I'm glad I did.

I still think about this quote. I relate to the part that says "It is our light not our darkness, that most frightens us."

I think that I need to find my light. I need to shine through the darkest reaches of my life and enlighten them. I think that it is important that I bring my demons into light and never be afraid of them again.

According to the world dictionary, liberate is to set free, as from imprisonment or bondage. I am not sure I ever viewed the "getting in my own way" as bondage, but recent circumstances have shed a new light on that for me. And I find that word spot on. It IS bondage to be in your own way. I refuse to be in darkness any longer. I will purge myself of insecurity and insignificance. No boss, family member, "friend" or foe will be able to convince me ANY LONGER that I am inadequate.

The Writing On The Wall

This year Mark turns 50. He has never ever EVER talked about aging. I'm the one that complains about wrinkles and sagging and grey hair and "did I do it right" and "what will I do without my kids at home" and "I HATE the silence".  He comforts me with "I'm excited for the next part of our lives", or "Oh, Poop (yes, he calls me Poop) you're a Spring chicken" or "It's just a number".

Last night Mark was talking about turning 50. He loves to golf. Golfs every chance he can get. He enrolls in as many tournaments that I allow and works daily to get his handicap as low as possible. I will NEVER forget his first tournament. I don't know what his handicap was, but I know it was in the double digits. I couldn't believe that he had signed up for a tournament. He's always been fearless that way. He's a go-for-it kind of guy, whereas I'll plan and plan and plan and then not do a dang thing about it. All talk - no action. Yep. That's me.

The morning of the tournament arrived. Clubs were clean and organized in his golf bag. The bag was loaded with PLENTY of balls and tees to get him through the hazards. Mark showered and I set his clothes out. Mark is known to wear long johns, shorts, work boots and sweatshirt. It is MANDATORY that I monitor his "I'm-going-out-in-public" wardrobe. I kissed him for luck and sent him on his way.

He had the time of his life. Didn't win. Didn't place. Teed up on the first hole, waggled the club, swung a couple of practice swings, stepped up to the ball, swung with all his might...and whiffed it. Stepped up to the ball AGAIN and officially began his golf tournament. He enjoyed his golfing companions and loved the pristine condition of the course.

At the course yesterday, it was brought to Mark's attention that he will be golfing tournaments this year as a Senior. What? We aren't seniors. Did I say that loud enough? WE AREN'T SENIORS! Ugh. All the age, all the DENIAL of age hit him upside the head and landed him smack dab in the middle of reality. 

Years ago, I read Tuesdays With Morrie. Loved it. Morrie knew he was going to die from ALS and decided to hold a "living" funeral for himself. He felt it was "unfair" that we aren't around to hear what the people we love say about us.

Mitch Album wrote:
The New Year came and went. Although he never said it to anyone, Morrie knew this would be the last year of his life. He was using a wheelchair now, and he was fighting time to say all the things he wanted to say to all the people he loved. When a colleague at Brandeis died suddenly of a heart attack, Morrie went to his funeral. He came home depressed.
"What a waste," he said. "All those people saying all those wonderful things, and Irv never got to hear any of it."
Morrie had a better idea. He made some calls. He chose a date. And on a cold Sunday afternoon, he was joined in his home by a small group of friends and family for a "living funeral." Each of them spoke and paid tribute to my old professor. Some cried. Some laughed. One woman read a poem:
"My dear and loving cousin ...Your ageless heart as you move through time, layer on layer, tender sequoia ..."
Morrie cried and laughed with them. And all the heartfelt things we never get to say to those we love, Morrie said that day. His "living funeral" was a rousing success.
Only Morrie wasn't dead yet. In fact, the most unusual part of his life was about to unfold.

I think about this now. I think about age and the pros and cons that are attached to it. It's okay that Mark is turning 50. I suppose that it's okay that I'm right behind him in the age department. 

I think about Mark's first tournament. I laugh with him about whiffing the ball and how embarrassed he was and how he shook it off and told the guys in the group "Well, glad I got that out of the way" and continued to play the 18 holes and continued to laugh and joke with the group while simply being proud of himself for doing the "unheard of" for him.

I have stepped up to my own ball a few times. I have whiffed it more than once. In fact, I continue to do so at times. I'm frustrated with my inability to learn from some of my mistakes and create a better game for myself. I'll take the lessons that Mark has taught me and I'll put the mistakes behind me. I'll enjoy the sun on my shoulders and the camaraderie of those around me. I long to live my life so that those standing at my funeral have good things to say about me. 

"Everyone knows they're going to die, but nobody believes it.... So we kid ourselves about death.... But there's a better approach. To know you're going to die, and to be prepared for it at any time....Do what the Buddhists do...ask, Is today the day? Am I ready? Am I doing all I need to do? Am I being the person I want to be?”  

I think Morrie had it right.