So, what have we been doing all summer? We’ve been able to spend one to two weeks each month in Holland doing some boating, shopping, sharing good times with friends, and eating. Bob has called it “escaping.” (That’s what we’re doing right now before we head home on Tuesday.) Generous friends even provided us with delightful opportunities to ride on their much larger boats including a 43’ sailboat and a 37’ cabin cruiser. These big boys take boating to a whole new level.
And, I had only one bad scare there. Bob finally agreed to go to Urgent Care on July 10th because of fatigue, labored breathing, and a lot of edema in his legs. My exasperated words the previous night had been, “Bob, it sounds like you’re dying.” I had not watched Bob sign in, but we were barely seated when the nurse rushed out and asked Bob if he was having pains associated with a heart attack. He replied, “No, but I came here to find out if I had one a week ago.” Yes, I did have that deer-in-the-headlights look. He had never mentioned a word about his suspicions.
The doctor listened to his heart and lungs, and told us he was ordering an ambulance to take Bob to the hospital. Bob retorted that I could just drive him. We weren’t long in the hospital’s ER before Bob was given a private room on the special cardiac floor where his heart was continuously monitored. He endured “the big work-up,” and his diagnosis was acute congestive heart failure due to fluid overload. He was able to leave the hospital late the next afternoon with the condition resolved, but the cause of the crisis remained a mystery. One guess was that he’d had an arrhythmia (abnormal heart rhythm) that threw his heart into failure, and another was that one of his chemotherapy drugs did it. The edema continues, but Bob manages it everyday by checking his weight and the puffiness of his legs and then determining if he needs to take a water pill. Just another blip.
Back at home, I’ve gardened more extensively since we’ve spent more summer time there, and even put in a few tomato plants (of different varieties). The first two weeks of June, I cleaned beds, did some redesign, moved perennials, and planted annuals. The garden is always a place of miracles and peace for me. Our flowers have performed fairly well, but the August dryness has taken its toll. Now I’m making plans for next year. I’ve also enjoyed hours of reading, choosing mysteries, thrillers, and other light novels to suck me into the story and out of reality.
Monday, September 2, 2013
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Before and After
April 1, 2013. That’s the date that Bob was diagnosed with stage one multiple myeloma*, as yet an incurable but treatable form of blood cancer. I wish it had been a nasty April Fool’s Day joke being pulled by his hematologist, but I knew it wasn’t. With the doctor’s diagnostic sentence, our lives were forever changed. Before and after.
That phrase, “before and after,” has been part of our lexicon since seeing the 1996 movie of the same name starring Meryl Streep and Liam Nieson. This mother and dad have two children and seem to be living the perfect life. Then a teenage girl who has been dating their son is found dead in a field, and their son is a suspect. Roger Ebert and other film critics didn’t rate this movie very highly, and I can understand some of their issues with the plot, but the emotion it generated in me remains to this day. Why? Because before and after moments are part of the human condition, jarring steps along our life journeys. Happening unexpectedly, like in the film, they throw our lives off kilter, and the lives we lead afterwards are forever different from those before.
For us, it has been five months since that diagnosis, but our lives have already been considerably altered. For example, we’ve discovered that we’re lucky if we can make plans for a week that don’t have to be changed, that we have as many trips to St. Louis as we do to Holland, MI, and that Bob, who felt fine before his diagnosis, is now suffering the effects of his chemotherapy. We pray for a miracle, for strength, courage, and grace.
I recently finished reading French film artist Marcel Pagnol‘s memoir, My Father’s Glory and My Mother’s Castle. Toward the end he wrote, “Such is the life of man. A few joys, quickly obliterated by unforgettable sorrows. There is no need to tell the children so.” I’m trying not to let this be my story. In truth there is much we humans have absolutely no control over. However, we can control our responses, and jarring steps, before and after moments, cannot only alter lives but can transform them. I’m hoping that this one will color me with more love and compassion.
*Multiple myeloma is a type of cancer that begins in the plasma cells. Normal plasma cells are found in the bone marrow and are an important part of the body’s immune system. When plasma cells grow out of control, they can form a tumor, usually in the bone marrow. This type of tumor is called a myeloma, and if there are many tumors the cancer is called multiple myeloma.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
It's all in my head
Haven’t seen anything new on my blog site for months? The problem isn’t that I don’t have anything to say about a current event or haven’t remembered an interesting bit from my childhood. Indeed I have a huge file of ideas, each on a Post-It or scrap of paper (I haven’t figured out how to organize them yet.). And every morning as I drink my first and sometimes even my second cup of coffee, I welcome random thoughts to drift into my consciousness and bring me more ideas to ponder. (An aside: I thought that I was unusual, being someone who would gaze out the window, not really focusing on the garden or the lake, but letting my mind freefall, until I recently read everyone spends half of their awake hours daydreaming.) So, again, my problem isn’t a lack of something to explore, it’s that I write everything in my head and not on the computer. I just never quite get there.
Yes, I want to write and even feel a need to write but don’t start my day at the computer. It’s similar to my wanting to exercise and knowing that I should exercise but never quite making it to the treadmill. And, let’s see. . . I want to sort through all of my recipes. . . I want to make more entries in my art journal. . . I’d like to gather the family to make soup and cookies for the homeless. . . I’d like to organize my closets. . . and so on. But it’s difficult to do these things when what I really feel like is hibernating.
Hibernating just seems so natural during winter. I can stay in my comfy PJs (the favorites being the red flannel with the penguins or the light blue cotton with the moon and stars) in the king-sized bed with its eight pillows and down comforter and read, daydream, or watch movies. Zoe (our 12-year-old,10-pound Yorkie) loves to hibernate too. Bob, not so much. His computer sends out a siren song that he is unable to resist. But I guess the time to arise has come.
Punxsutawney Phil didn’t see his shadow, so an early spring is on its way, and I have a lot to do. I’ve started my Lenten devotion and have organized all the bathroom cabinets (out with the 2008 medications). Now it’s time to get to some serious cleaning -- wading through the big storage closets downstairs, washing all the kitchen cabinets, cleaning all the glass on the pictures. You know the drill. And, yes, its time to start sharing some of my stories and recommending some of the great memoirs I’ve read.
Stay tuned. This bear has emerged from her den. I’m back.
Yes, I want to write and even feel a need to write but don’t start my day at the computer. It’s similar to my wanting to exercise and knowing that I should exercise but never quite making it to the treadmill. And, let’s see. . . I want to sort through all of my recipes. . . I want to make more entries in my art journal. . . I’d like to gather the family to make soup and cookies for the homeless. . . I’d like to organize my closets. . . and so on. But it’s difficult to do these things when what I really feel like is hibernating.
Hibernating just seems so natural during winter. I can stay in my comfy PJs (the favorites being the red flannel with the penguins or the light blue cotton with the moon and stars) in the king-sized bed with its eight pillows and down comforter and read, daydream, or watch movies. Zoe (our 12-year-old,10-pound Yorkie) loves to hibernate too. Bob, not so much. His computer sends out a siren song that he is unable to resist. But I guess the time to arise has come.
Punxsutawney Phil didn’t see his shadow, so an early spring is on its way, and I have a lot to do. I’ve started my Lenten devotion and have organized all the bathroom cabinets (out with the 2008 medications). Now it’s time to get to some serious cleaning -- wading through the big storage closets downstairs, washing all the kitchen cabinets, cleaning all the glass on the pictures. You know the drill. And, yes, its time to start sharing some of my stories and recommending some of the great memoirs I’ve read.
Stay tuned. This bear has emerged from her den. I’m back.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Thanksgiving Memories
“Let’s listen to some man-talk,” my mother-in-law said pointedly to this new bride who was away from her family for her first holiday. Believe me, I had not been monopolizing the conversation. There were few of us around the dining room table, only two men. Her sons. They were clearly all that mattered to her. So, for the rest of the meal, her female guests ate silently, listening only to the ticking clock and the words issued by my golden-tongued husband and his brother. And, as I’m sure you’ve discerned, this short discourse set the tone for this mother-in-law and daughter-in-law relationship for the rest of her days. Thank goodness not all of my Thanksgivings have had such a surly tenor.
When I was a young girl, I enjoyed two dinners each Thanksgiving. We drove more than two hours to my parents’ hometown, Litchfield, and then ate at Grandmother Davis’ and Grandpa and Gram Bandy’s houses. Later on, we had shorter drives to one of the houses of my mother’s siblings. Sickness or weather would occasionally prevent us from hitting the road, and then we’d be especially thankful that my mother always had the assignment to bring the desserts and not the salads! Once an old chicken my mother found buried in the freezer had to be our “turkey” for the day. It was so tough that we finally just passed the carcass around between the three of us, and I declared that we were eating as the Eskimos did (according to some random fact I had read) as opposed to Pilgrims and Indians.
I don’t remember exactly when the extended family quit sharing the holidays, but, sometime after I was married, my husband and I became the hosts of the feast. We were joined by my parents, my mother-in-law, stepchildren (and, eventually their families/significant others), and, perhaps, close friends. My mother usually made us go around the circle and proclaim what we were thankful for. This turned into a family love fest as each mentioned a spouse and/or children. It was refreshing to read the local paper last week and see what others mentioned:
- touchdowns and turkey
- Legos, family, Oreos, ice cream, friends. Football, baseball, swimming, Humor, school, personality, Thank-you God
- Reading words like stop, country and my very favorite word is pepperoni pizza.
- I’m truly blessed because I could change myself, I wouldn’t
- I am thankful that my family loves me even though I am really naughty all the time, and I can’t help it. P.S. Those burger patties were THE BOMB!
-Tango the dog
and, two of my favorite:
- I’m thankful for the pencil I can pick up to make ideas into art.
- The incredible pages of books that are long, many words, make my mind explode!
This Thanksgiving we enjoyed a delicious buffet at a favorite restaurant on the lake. My husband downed at least one dozen oysters on the half-shell, and I tried to match him with desserts. We had a three generation family sit near us. The six children, all grade school aged, entered first and declared one-half of the long table the “kid’s table,” and then were followed by their grandparents and parents. After most had finished eating and were beginning to head to the dessert table, we were given our chuckle for the day. The most sanguine of the children, a boy probably an eight-year-old, stood beside his chair with one knee on it and said, “Wow, this is really the way to go,” followed a minute later by, “Just look at that view.” Truthfully, he couldn’t have said it better.
When I was a young girl, I enjoyed two dinners each Thanksgiving. We drove more than two hours to my parents’ hometown, Litchfield, and then ate at Grandmother Davis’ and Grandpa and Gram Bandy’s houses. Later on, we had shorter drives to one of the houses of my mother’s siblings. Sickness or weather would occasionally prevent us from hitting the road, and then we’d be especially thankful that my mother always had the assignment to bring the desserts and not the salads! Once an old chicken my mother found buried in the freezer had to be our “turkey” for the day. It was so tough that we finally just passed the carcass around between the three of us, and I declared that we were eating as the Eskimos did (according to some random fact I had read) as opposed to Pilgrims and Indians.
I don’t remember exactly when the extended family quit sharing the holidays, but, sometime after I was married, my husband and I became the hosts of the feast. We were joined by my parents, my mother-in-law, stepchildren (and, eventually their families/significant others), and, perhaps, close friends. My mother usually made us go around the circle and proclaim what we were thankful for. This turned into a family love fest as each mentioned a spouse and/or children. It was refreshing to read the local paper last week and see what others mentioned:
- touchdowns and turkey
- Legos, family, Oreos, ice cream, friends. Football, baseball, swimming, Humor, school, personality, Thank-you God
- Reading words like stop, country and my very favorite word is pepperoni pizza.
- I’m truly blessed because I could change myself, I wouldn’t
- I am thankful that my family loves me even though I am really naughty all the time, and I can’t help it. P.S. Those burger patties were THE BOMB!
-Tango the dog
and, two of my favorite:
- I’m thankful for the pencil I can pick up to make ideas into art.
- The incredible pages of books that are long, many words, make my mind explode!
This Thanksgiving we enjoyed a delicious buffet at a favorite restaurant on the lake. My husband downed at least one dozen oysters on the half-shell, and I tried to match him with desserts. We had a three generation family sit near us. The six children, all grade school aged, entered first and declared one-half of the long table the “kid’s table,” and then were followed by their grandparents and parents. After most had finished eating and were beginning to head to the dessert table, we were given our chuckle for the day. The most sanguine of the children, a boy probably an eight-year-old, stood beside his chair with one knee on it and said, “Wow, this is really the way to go,” followed a minute later by, “Just look at that view.” Truthfully, he couldn’t have said it better.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Little Women
Happy Halloween! Today’s topic isn’t about tricks or treats, nor is it about ghosts and goblins. I know, you thought it would be about my eating all of the Halloween candy before today came. Amazingly, I haven’t. Instead, I want to share with you some thoughts on the latest book I’ve read.
I read vociferously as a child, and although my family wasn’t rich, they regularly took me to the library, bought me Scholastic Books from school, and enrolled me in various book clubs such as The Story of . . ., We Were There . . ., Best in Children’s Books, and so on. I have vivid memories of it all. I could walk into that old library and pick up a copy of Little House on the Prairie from the bottom shelf of the beautiful built-in dark wooden bookcase on the right just inside the children’s section. I can feel the excitement of receiving the Scholastic Books flyer, reading the synopsis of each offering, and checking off those books I had most interest in. And, I can still see myself ripping into the cardboard packaging of the new book that had arrived in that day’s mail and plopping down in my dad’s chair by the fireplace that had the best reading light.
It was through one of the book clubs, the “Junior Deluxe Editions,” that I became familiar with Louisa May Alcott’s work--Jack and Jill, Little Men, Under the Lilacs, and Little Women. Little Women, inspired by Alcott’s own family, fascinated me most, not only because of the story, but because one of the characters had “my name,” Beth. That was a rare event. At the time, it didn’t matter to me that the Beth character was the delicate, sickly child and died before the end of the novel, although later on I would accuse my mother of naming me that in hopes that I would die young too. It was a hateful thing to say and far from the truth! But I digress.
It was because of my feelings toward Little Women that I became very curious about Geraldine Brooks’ novel, March. In Little Women, the girls’ father is absent for most of the story, and we follow the life of the rest of the family at their home for a year, from Christmas to Christmas. Brooks, in her book, spins the story of what Mr. March was doing during that time and draws upon the many works by and about Alcott’s father, Bronson, for her inspiration.
In this book of historical fiction, we find Mr. March, an idealist chaplain and vegetarian, in the Union camps during the first year of the Civil War. It is a difficult life, and he is revolted to find that even the Union soldiers are capable of “acts of barbarism and racism.” He wrestles with his faith, with the horror he sees and experiences, and finally with a most serious illness that reunites him with his wife. Like all who go off to war, at the end, he struggles with reintegrating himself back into his family and a life at home. Unlike Little Women, March is an adult tale about idealism, temptation, and marriage.
All of you who count Little Women as one of your favorite childhood books, I urge you to read "the rest of the story," the story of the absent father in March. It is a beautifully written novel, and you will not be disappointed.
I read vociferously as a child, and although my family wasn’t rich, they regularly took me to the library, bought me Scholastic Books from school, and enrolled me in various book clubs such as The Story of . . ., We Were There . . ., Best in Children’s Books, and so on. I have vivid memories of it all. I could walk into that old library and pick up a copy of Little House on the Prairie from the bottom shelf of the beautiful built-in dark wooden bookcase on the right just inside the children’s section. I can feel the excitement of receiving the Scholastic Books flyer, reading the synopsis of each offering, and checking off those books I had most interest in. And, I can still see myself ripping into the cardboard packaging of the new book that had arrived in that day’s mail and plopping down in my dad’s chair by the fireplace that had the best reading light.
It was through one of the book clubs, the “Junior Deluxe Editions,” that I became familiar with Louisa May Alcott’s work--Jack and Jill, Little Men, Under the Lilacs, and Little Women. Little Women, inspired by Alcott’s own family, fascinated me most, not only because of the story, but because one of the characters had “my name,” Beth. That was a rare event. At the time, it didn’t matter to me that the Beth character was the delicate, sickly child and died before the end of the novel, although later on I would accuse my mother of naming me that in hopes that I would die young too. It was a hateful thing to say and far from the truth! But I digress.
It was because of my feelings toward Little Women that I became very curious about Geraldine Brooks’ novel, March. In Little Women, the girls’ father is absent for most of the story, and we follow the life of the rest of the family at their home for a year, from Christmas to Christmas. Brooks, in her book, spins the story of what Mr. March was doing during that time and draws upon the many works by and about Alcott’s father, Bronson, for her inspiration.
In this book of historical fiction, we find Mr. March, an idealist chaplain and vegetarian, in the Union camps during the first year of the Civil War. It is a difficult life, and he is revolted to find that even the Union soldiers are capable of “acts of barbarism and racism.” He wrestles with his faith, with the horror he sees and experiences, and finally with a most serious illness that reunites him with his wife. Like all who go off to war, at the end, he struggles with reintegrating himself back into his family and a life at home. Unlike Little Women, March is an adult tale about idealism, temptation, and marriage.
All of you who count Little Women as one of your favorite childhood books, I urge you to read "the rest of the story," the story of the absent father in March. It is a beautifully written novel, and you will not be disappointed.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Monday, October 8, 2012
Antiques and Memories
Antiques. I have never been an antiques shopper, but I have treasured the few old family pieces that we have. However, I have a friend who loves to shop for antiques, and when we have the opportunity to get together, we usually have lunch and try to visit a shop or two. I am a child at her knee, as she is knowledgeable about everything from sleigh bells to china. Teddy bears, postcards, crystal, many things catch my eyes, especially items that were in my house when I was a young girl.
Recently, on one of our forays to a newly-discovered antiques mall, I found a set of Childcraft and looked through each volume until I found what I was after. (For you who many not be familiar with Childcraft -- The How and Why Library, it was a series of books created in 1934 by the publishers of World Book encyclopedia. It was based on the interests of preschool and primary school-aged children and encouraged learning in a fun way. Subjects included Literature and the Language Arts, Science, Social Studies, Creative Activities and Fine Arts, Health and Safety, and a final volume for parents and teachers.) I had a set of these books, 15 volumes in all, but I especially enjoyed the stories and poems. It was one of the poems I had wanted to find.
My heart beat a little faster when I saw the pages with Dorothy Aldis’* poem, “Hiding.” Although this was the 1975 edition, the illustrations were just as I remembered. To this day I can recite the first stanza:
I’m hiding, I’m hiding,
And no one knows where;
For all they can see is my
Toes and my hair.
I can hear my mother reading this to me. Perhaps this is my first memory. And, undoubtedly, it started my life-long love of literature.
*Of course I didn't know it then, but Dorothy Aldis was recognized as "a major contributor to children's literature" and was called by some "The Poet Laureate of Young Children."
Recently, on one of our forays to a newly-discovered antiques mall, I found a set of Childcraft and looked through each volume until I found what I was after. (For you who many not be familiar with Childcraft -- The How and Why Library, it was a series of books created in 1934 by the publishers of World Book encyclopedia. It was based on the interests of preschool and primary school-aged children and encouraged learning in a fun way. Subjects included Literature and the Language Arts, Science, Social Studies, Creative Activities and Fine Arts, Health and Safety, and a final volume for parents and teachers.) I had a set of these books, 15 volumes in all, but I especially enjoyed the stories and poems. It was one of the poems I had wanted to find.
My heart beat a little faster when I saw the pages with Dorothy Aldis’* poem, “Hiding.” Although this was the 1975 edition, the illustrations were just as I remembered. To this day I can recite the first stanza:
I’m hiding, I’m hiding,
And no one knows where;
For all they can see is my
Toes and my hair.
I can hear my mother reading this to me. Perhaps this is my first memory. And, undoubtedly, it started my life-long love of literature.
*Of course I didn't know it then, but Dorothy Aldis was recognized as "a major contributor to children's literature" and was called by some "The Poet Laureate of Young Children."
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