Yesterday was a bleak day.
All winter my family and I have waited for snow; we got it - just a little bit. Yesterday morning, early, my teenaged grandchildren and their mom were outside frolicking in the snow with KeyKey, a rescued dog turned "companion dog" (my daughter is disabled) turned hero with two human lives to his credit (mine included). They live in a residential neighborhood on a tree-lined side street.
A pick-up truck driving too fast for the icy roads sped up the access road and made the sharp right to their street, immediately launching into an uncontrolled skid. KeyKey, a Shepherd/Sheltie mix with herding tendencies, ran in circles herding the family. They escaped. The truck hit him full force.
The joy of that first frolick in the snow ended with the children and their mom screaming, crying, falling to the ground around him, with KeyKey wagging his tail as he died in the snow, his humans all around him.
We are devastated. I keep breaking into tears, and everywhere around my house are traces of him from his visits, a doggie bone here, a leash there, a trace of "KeyKey fuzz" on my sofa, where he liked to curl up for a nap on every visit.
It's like losing a child; this hero dog rescued from trauma was someone we nursed and cherished and took into our hearts.
Each year I keep my snowman collection up all season, hope for the barest trace of snow. I took them down today, packed them up and put them away. Maybe next year I'll put them out again. Maybe.
Next week we pick up his ashes, which will be in a small wooden box with a plaque on the front.
The snow we all kept wishing for didn't turn out the way we had expected.
If any of you have seen The Bucket List, you'll know about not letting opportunities slip by, about reaching out for your dreams.
Yesterday was a dream day. I flew. Not as a passenger, but as a "pilot" for the the first time. Flying lessons that started with flight. Nice little Cessna, blue sky, light puffy clouds, and me, zipping around the sky, fearless, feeling as if I should have been doing this for years. Okay, the left leg was a bit stiff, and the pedal steering tough because of it. But determination beats all.
I was supposed to tandem skydive as well, but had to defer that. One dream a week, I guess. I 've been tallying up my adventures, from rafting and whitewater canoeing, to hot air ballooning and glider flight, and I realized that I am both blessed and lucky that I can play out dreams and adventures in my life, even when life tries its best to create obstacles.I guess you have to reach out with confidence, hope and optimism.
WOW!!! I am lucky.
My birthday is coming up, and I awoke this morning with that thought niggling in the back of my mind. Wondering what I would do with the day. Knowing it would be spent here, in this town, and not where I really want to be. Or with whom I want to share the day with. My old friends live 1400 miles away and while I will see them soon enough, I would have liked it to be this weekend. Oh well.
Three hours into my day, somewhere around 9:30 this morning, the mail came. A stack of it. A sexy/funny card with a Barnes and Noble gift card. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. A card and gift and a note that said "Have lunch on me!" Another card just reminding me that distance doesn't really separate friends. A fourth card with new photos of a dear friend taken for his newest TV production.
I went to the bookcase, fourth shelf from the floor, and pushed away the Get Well cards, tucking them one inside the other, tangible evidence of the people I miss so much. One by one, I stood the new cards and pictures and the shelf, handling each one with care, knowing that every time I pass through my doorway I am sharing my world with them, long distance.
I will take myself to lunch, after I've ordered that copy of Ryan's Daughter I've wanted for some time from Barnes and Noble. I will have a glass of wine and toast my friends.
Tonight I sat in the front row, watching as my second granddaughter walked in the room to the strains of Pomp and Circumstance, bright blue cap and gown, the gold collar that designates "honors." Wow. where does the time go?
In June I'll go with her for college orientation, and by August she be enrolled and attending college right around the corner from my house. I live simply, with a "table for two" in my kitchen. That will have to change. Her older sister Brandi spent at least half of each semester conveniently ensconced in my living room, adjacent to the refrigerator "where the good food lives." I'll need another chair. Her sister will likely join her here come fall semester.
All of this is a marked shift in my life as a semi-retired writer, but it is a nice shift. I am lucky to be blessed with girls who are loving, affectionate, caring, honorable, who hold themselves in high self-esteem and who have not been plagued by the issues and difficulties so many teens face these days. They know what they want out of life, and are working hard to get it.
I watched Rochelle walk up to the podium, take her diploma in hand, and felt such joy at her success, and joy that I am part of their lives in a significant way.
How lucky can one grandma get?
As I read of Ted Kennedy's sad diagnosis, I wondered just how much a single family can endure. Then a friend said to me, well....look at [my own situation].
I am a survivor.
My friend is right.
I laid myself down on the floor, on my yoga mat, trying to relax. It' been a day of unrelenting pain, constant discomfort, and my own impatience with myself.
I itemized in my mind the things I have survived.
The threat of cancer. The process of biopsy, the stress of "waiting" for answers, the blessed relief when the news is good.
Two lives demolished by Alzheimer's while I watched, took care, went broke, wore myself out without regret. You care as best you can for those you love, for as long as it takes.
My back injury. Hospital, nursing home rehabilitation, walking again. Never take the ability to take a single step, to stand without help, to make a flight of stairs at any pace. Sprinting is not essential. Just one step at a time.
The house fire. Okay, I have a few burn scars on my arms. Not pretty, but not that bad. Slowly fading. Too slowly sometimes. But the nightmares happen much less often. I am still here, alive. My purpose on this earth not yet complete. More to do.
In my recent illness I lay in the hospital bed, thinking that if I died, it would be okay. I have done so much.
Today I am dealing with unexpected effects of the drugs used to save my life several months ago. In the process came surprise: I have a repeat of the cancer scare. Haven't I done that already? Must I do it again? Better to deal than ignore. I've never been one to bury my head in the sand. Tell me; I will deal with it.
I stressed as the doctor poked and prodded, noted my flinching with practiced eye, checking further, hustling appointments for subsequent radiology tests etc. I felt stressed, but only for a moment. How lucky that I have a doctor, that she pays attention when I speak or question, that she listens to my concerns.
How lucky I am that I can research, read, take responsibility for doing what I need to do to first, stay well, and second, when staying well doesn't work, be able to react and respond in the interests of my survival.
For I am not done, not yet, not for some time to come.
My back is unrelentingly painful today; I stretch out on the floor, ease my mind, focus on positives:
My life at the lake is over but I had it, and loved it while I had it. I turn the pages of my mind and return to that place and that peace.
My grandchildren are beautiful, and all I ever hoped and prayed they would be, or become. They are still "becoming."
I have a decent, affordable place to live with clotheslines [I love fresh air dried laundry], bird feeders and an array of birds that empty them every day, and flowers. It's a rougher neighborhood, but I am kind to my neighbors and they respect that and treat me well.
I have friends all over the country who care about me.
My life is replete with amazing experiences, unique work, exhilarating play. More to come.
I remember everyday to tell the people who matter that I love them.
So today was a rough day. We all have them. It will pass.
Last weekend I stood on the deck of a ferry, face to the wind and sun as I rode back and forth across Kentucky Lake. Next week I'll be at Collinsville for a new story.
Tomorrow holds new issues and more answers. The sun will rise, and if I am lucky, I'll lay outside for awhile and slowly tan. It's the one thing I won't give up. In an earlier life I was a beach bum. No doubt in my mind about that.
Yes, some days are better than others. So today was a rough day. There's always the promise of better tomorrow. Reach out and grab it, hold it tight, and make the most of it.
In a flurry of swirling fabrics, hairspray mist, an iridescent dusting of glimmer powder, my second granddaughter , like Cinderella, was off to the ball. Her senior prom.
Rochelle is tall, willowy, with red hair tumbling down her back, draped ina strapless red gown with embroidered bodice and pouffy gathered skirt: a real ball gown straight out of yesterday's fashion runways. That was just the beginning.
A friend and professional photographer was on hand to document the transformation from high school kid to elegant young lady, capturing hundreds of facial expressions in the "getting ready" process before capturing the soft nuances of the moment when her boyfriend first looked at her in awe.
Of course there are the traditional family pictures, candid and posed. But there are also the "Vogue" shots of Rochelle, standing in a field of grass, shyly looking down, or hand raised in a soft wave, or a demure look over her shoulder...
Her boyfriend's dad hired a limo for them and two other couples; the young man arrived in style, first meeting dad, mom and assorted family like me, before the "grand entrance" was made.
It was a "whoa" moment; the wrist corsage was slipped on her wrist, with the shy smiles of the self-conscious, and then more photos in the lush outdoor setting behind her home.
The young man will be off to college 200 miles away come September, and Rochelle join her sister at college in my town, just around the corner from me, come September.
As the limousine drove, Rochelle gave us the "princess wave" from the window, smiling, moving into the next phase of her life.
Her mom and I just watched, wondering where time had gone.
Under storm watches and warnings last Friday, I waiting, listened, tracked storms, and fell asleep. The blare of the tornado sirens sent me leaping out of bed and diving for my shelter space even as four F-1s hit the neighborhood. The power flashed inside the house and out and everything went dark. The electric-based phone was dead; the land line still worked, and at 12:30 a.m. my publisher emerged from under his steel case desk in his home office and called me.
I've got no power and there are trees down everywhere. I could hear the sirens balring.
I know, I replied. Since we were both wide awake, in the dark and journalists at heart, he was at my house in five minutes, time that I used to doff the PJs and jump into waterproof raingear and my Amazon rainproof hat.
For several hours we did night photography and interviews of the damage and the victims. The city's pavilion was shredded and the pieces relocated, one family survived in a mobile home that was rolled across the road and impaled on a tree. The Red Cross was without power, and having recently lost their emergency vehicle to an arsonist, was crawling around their office trying to find supplies and equipment to load into the vehicles of their many volunteers.
being powerless and without shame, we called a partner and drove to his home at 3:30 in the morning to use his computer to upload pictures and write the story. Wow!
Eventually, I crawled back into my own bed for three hours, then got up, called my boss on his cell, and we were off again to repeat the rounds by daylight, talking to distraught homeowners and survivors, and surveying the damage. Another friend went airborne for aerial shots of the wreckage left behind.
I wrote the stories, starting from the first point of impact, moving through one district at a time, sharing the distress, the hope and the outright miracles. Despite it lack of emergency equipment, the Red Cross had delivered over 100 meals to emergency response workers and victims by early Saturday morning and survivors were arriving to see what help they might be able to access.
I am also a certfied weather spotter, and a trained Red Cross volunteer (shelter ops and logistics), and have been since they arrive at my doorstep when our family home burned and displaced six of us (three generations). I watched them work, and remain perpetually amazed at what they do.
Saturday night my publisher and I worked on a gallery of photos (over 100), plus the aerial slideshow, and I wrote my story. And slept well.
My next effort is part of campaign to find funds to replace old charred remains of the Red Cross ERV. Insurance covered little because the vehicle was so old. But considering our agency covers three counties and Fort Campbell military base [in total a geographically huge area], it is a fundraising effort worth doing.
The need for that vehicle was never more evident that during these storms and the aftermath.
Sunday really was a day of rest, but as I look over the weekend I realized again that life is precarious.
I asked myself if I remembered to tell my grandchildren I loved them the last time I saw them (yes), and recalled adding that "I love you" to the last note I wrote my daughter.
And I looked in the mirror and thought: I survived my back injury struggled to walk again and heal; I survived being stranded in South America and the Amazon after 9-11; I escaped a house fire with some burns and my life; I survived a potentially fatal illness just a few months ago...
I'm guess I am not done yet. And no matter how tough things get, they always get better and usually in a way that ultimately allows me to help someone else who has tougher, harder, or more critical needs.
I am not done yet.
My granddaughter arrived this morning, unlocking the front door, tiptoeing in to drop off her travel bag, laptop and the bulk of her books before tiptoeing out and down the street to her college classroom. Exam week. Exam week spent studying and prepping at "grandma's house, where it's quiet." Her words.
She's been here a lot: most of last semester, Monday through Thursdays, and this semester, in part for school and in part to take of me during my illness and recovery. It's noisy at her home; sharing a room with a sister on a whacky schedule, a brother full of 16-year-old noise and angst and emotional issues, and a dad on a whacky schedule waxing and waning between work and short-term layoffs. I have become the oasis.
It works out well, since I too am in the middle of catch-up with school and the time I lost to my illness. Scrambling to write, read, annotate, evaluate, calculate completion of the required aspects...I am huddled over my desktop, she over her laptop. We meet and mingle as we prepare lunch or supper, or take a break. I am here to mentor, advise, answer questions, explain what I can from my vantage of years and experience.
Tonight we joined forces to bake a cake, to create a temporary sugar fix, laughing at the fact that I still haven't replace my large mixing bowl, my old-fashioned egg beater, my large measuring cup and my electric mixer since the they burned up in the fire. I gave up measuring a long time ago, and use a wire whisk for everything. I am teaching her my culinary tricks. Meanwhile we are nibbling cold General Tso Chicken that we made for lunch today (Grandma's version, without the breading and with extra veggies).
Tomorrow she writes her paper on nationalism and studies for exams in Calculus, Art and Psychology. Zoology was today; Lab Exams were last week. She is a science major, Dean's list and some national honor organization. I am proud of her.
Next fall both my granddaughters will be here; they can't afford the price of dorm rooms on top of tuition so they come here, staying over as needed, camping out on my living room floor. Twice as many books and clothes and bookbags neatly stacked where I will not trip over them.
When our home burned, Brandi, who was left with the shirt on her back, cried, and then dusted herself off and went to school the next day, in her best friend's borrowed clothes. She did her homework, helped with the salvage, ended her year of wild transition as 16th in her class of 800+.
I held her hand when came into thew world at a mere three pounds, and she held mine just two months ago when I was critically ill. We have this bond...
She'll tiptoe out quietly Wednesday morning for more of those three hour exams. I'll listen to efforts to be "quiet as a mouse" and smile. I am so proud of her.
Today was my "Earth Day."
My Friend Debbie and I plans for this last Friday of Freedom before her new job and revised schedule kicked in. We had planned a quiet day, but ended up jumpstarting it with her covering a huge job fair, photo and stories to be written tonight, and a visit to our library's semi-annual book sale. [And who could pass up a book sale?]
I browsed the job fair, trying to assess who has work for what level of pay, but left the details to Debbie; I still tire too easily, so I shifted my energy to a more literary direction.
Such a book sale! So many books, so little time. I did my first 'sweep" of the tables, culling four oversized softback novels of store shelve quality, no broken spines or such, and the guilty pleasure of a Clive Cussler novel. Depositing those behind the cashier's table, I made round two, accumulating four more delectable novels [including a Peter Mahle) and at 4 mint softcovers for $3, I was a wealthy woman.
From that point, it was straight to Debbie's house for a lunch of tuna melts with spectacular cheese on grilled homemade organic bread. Eat slowly, savor the taste and the gooey warmth of melted cheese. Debbie is the master of home brewed mint teas, which we guzzled over ice with fresh lemons.
We meandered through her yard and its eclectic collection of trees, flowers, plants and birdfeeders. She collects rocks and stones of all sizes, some that fossils, others simply "interesting" or colorful. Pieces of driftwood are staged and structured with her artist's eye, and a closer look reveals rusty iron findinds turned into art.
I paused to study a piece of driftwood [closer to half a hollowed, waterlogged tree] that she dragged from the river when it flooded a few weeks ago; she is still studying it, assessing what it might become in her artist's mind. The tree hasn't revealed itself yet. But it will. In time. And she will make the most of it.
We chattered about large things and small, and spiced the conversations with generous dollops of laughter and smiles, enjoying the antics of the dozens of hummingbirds whizzing through the air from feeder to feeder along the the length of the porch railing, just a few feet before us. I spotted a young rabbit in the flowerbeds, apparently a regular guest. It was too early in the day for the deer or wild turkeys to emerge from the woods by the river that runs behind her home.
A stiff and cooling breeze took the edge of off the otherwise muggy heat of the day, and we sat on the deck immersed in tranquility.
Like all things escapist, it must also end, and so it did. She dropped me off at my house before heading into a hectic weekend. I settled into my house to finish a few chores before starting my hectic weekend. It's wonderful to have a hectic weekend planned after being as ill as I have been.
Spending time, any amount of time, with a friend like Debbie is always a gift, never to be taken for granted. She is a gentle but bright light in my Tennessee life and I cannot thank her enough for having found me.
The sun has set now; the bird chatter of twilight has succumbed to nightfall. In a few minutes I will close my door, turn off the lights and settle in for the evening. But it has been a wonderful day.
Last Friday I awoke, and was halfway across the room when I realized I was moving smoothly and with negligible pain. I didn't, in a word, feel "sick."
Oh yes. Which is not to say I am not still tiring too easily, or am ready to go full tilt. Instead I have crossed that illusive "I am going to be okay" line.
Yesterday, a friend of mine took me out to lunch. It was a fine spring day, and the restaurant (The Looking Glass -- one of my favorites) offered delectable luncheon sandwiches: mine was a chunky chicken salad with mandarin oranges and walnuts, served on a delicate croissant, with a side Mesclun salad and raspberry vinaigrette. The decor is straight out of Alice in Wonderland, a bright room with an odd mix of tables, wrought iron chairs, upholstered and heavily cushioned chairs, hand-painted ladder back chairs. Whimsy. Frivolity. The place makes you smile. Its outdoor terrace is surround by a sheltering bamboo fence. The pond has Koi, and the first shoots of summer water lilies, and a brass figure of geese flying...
We moved to the Amish store for fresh cheeses, ground Elk, specialized flours, hand packed herbs and spices, sweet homemade butter and other goodies. After dropping them off at my friend's home for refrigeration, we continued on to Rotary Park, an underused park hidden of a downtown road.
For the first time since February, I was outdoors. In nature.
We drove as far we could into the park, then walked around photographing the dogwoods and other flowering trees. We rode back to a small parking spot beside a brook that a week ago was over its bank but now meandered leisurely, babbling, bubbling and chattering, calling to us to venture closer.
We listened. On the edge of the stream we collected fossil rocks, and eyes the tangled curling roots of tree half-uprooted by the high water. Our respective artist eyes were intrigued, culling forms and images, studying the way the sunlight played off the water.
We walked up the edge of the stream, not chatting very much, instead absorbing the awakening of the earth. A few fiddleheads here, a cluster of bright purple flowers there, dark plum trilliums scattered throughout ... we watched minnows scurrying about in the shallows, and I wondered if there might be a brown trout hidden away in the rapids upstream.
I didn't walk far before I became tired, but it was such a wonderful tired.
I pulled the sunlight into me, and savored the heady, musty scent of water and wet wood. I listened to the music of the brook and let it soothe me.
As we headed home, we agreed that our next "girl's day out" would be a picnic lunch there. A couple of folding chairs. A sketchbook or a novel to read. And the sound of that crystal clear water meandering past us.
I thanked my friend for the gift of that day. For choosing to share that day with me. For being my friend.
As with all illnesses, there eventually comes a turning point, a line that once crossed is a clear indicator you are feeling better. For me, that happened yesterday.
After six weeks of "feeling poorly" and recovering from emergency surgery, six weeks of physical energy in the negative numbers and mental energy in a pea soup fog, I awoke yesterday morning feeling -- okay.
My feet hit the floor, still later than my traditional pre-sickness 5:30 a.m. wake up, but without that post-traumatic cloudy heavy aching feeling. I awoke, had a small breakfast, cleaned up the kitchen. Wet mopped the kitchen floors. "Straightened up" the living room. Sorted several cases of donated food into "brown bags" for a few neighbors in need (many things pass through my hands to others who might need them; I seem to be a conduit for that).
I went to lunch with two friends. Did school work and wrote for the website I edit.
Wow!!!
Only the day before I was shuffling about, wanting nothing more than to pull the covers my head with the thought "wake me when it's over (i.e. when I am well).
Then came that "duh" moment of realizing I was up and doing things and NOT feeling poorly.
I've done laundry and hung it out on the line in a stiff westerly wind, altered jeans to accommodate the weight loss of this illness (a good thing for many reasons), written an editorial response to something, and am about to tend my birdfeeders.
It's a wonderful day!
I'm at that point in my recovery from an illness where the brain is aware and on the move and the body can't quite keep up. I have no patience with myself (though I am always more than patient with everyone else). This self-directed desire to be bounding around resulted in a concerted effort to find pleasure in simple things,things to soothe my impulsiveness and carry me through the next month or so.
Birds. I have feeders outside the windows most often in my line of sight. Last winter I was repeatedly dazzled by the cardinals -- I had seven pair to track, including one particularly fiesty one who spent hours defending the sunflower sunflowers from all other invaders. He quickly learned that the glass separating my cat from him was impenetrable, at which point the bird (a sadist for sure) began clutching on the screen, taunting my furry friend -- my cat Franklin - to a frenzy.
My biggest smile, though, came with the arrival of the goldfinches, bright fluttering creatures who can clean out a feeder of thistle a day. I watch them dart about and try to spot the nesting trees. When I first moved here, I had not a single one. Last year a few found their way to me. Now, I am overrun, but that is not a complaint.
In her near daily visits my granddaughter helps me keep the feeders full, and has an affinity for my birds, often sitting at the foot of my bed, watching their squabbles, assigning human behaviors to them. My "bird book." passed from my father to me, and I think ultimately to her, is always on the windowsill.
Watching the comings and goings of my feathered companions make the day pass quickly, soothing and settling that otherwise anxious desire to "up and running."
Instead, I curl up, watch, and let this little bit of nature do its healing.
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