I don't have colon cancer

I had a little scare a week or so ago.

Now it's safe to say that it doesn't take much for me to have a little scare. When you've lost both parents (not to mention far too many friends and colleagues) to cancer, you tend to scare easy. Plus I work in a hospital where any and every freaky thing becomes suddenly and completely plausible: A head injury from hitting the rafters as you fall from the top of a barn? Steel rebar through the brain by way of the mouth as the result of a car accident? Second and third degree burns to the inner thighs, chest and face due to a fire in the cockpit of the plane that you were flying your mail-order bride around in?

All true, my friends. All true. (Sometime I'll have to tell you about Casey, the oppositional teenager who played Russion roulette and didn't exactly "win," if you know what I mean. Oh, Casey... you taught me a lot, buddy. Like how you shouldn't put a plastic spoon in the mouth of a boy with a tonic bite reflex, and how it's OK to tell my patients not to call me a bitch.)

Anyway, I've seen a lot. Nothing really shocks me anymore because anything, and everything, is totally possible. So when I started to have some concerning symptoms it was completely rational to conclude the inevitable:

I must have cancer.

But I don't! I don't have colon cancer! The good doctor checked it out yesterday with his very own eyes (and his very long endoscope) and even in my Versed-induced fog I heard him say it: Totally normal. Everything is fine.

HALLELUIA!!!

I feel better today than I have in weeks. Maybe the celebratory doughnut(s)and the good night's sleep had something to do with it, but mostly I think it's the knowledge that I don't have colon cancer. It's not just an amazing relief, it's energizing. It makes me feel like everything is possible, maybe even if it isn't. More than possible, actually -- like I owe it to myself to try. Try what? Try everything.

As I was thinking about this today I started wondering if my reaction is disproportionate to the situation. After all, it's not like I've had questionable blood tests or inconclusive scans. No, I've just got a bad family history, one scary episode, and a catalogue of tragedies that belong to other people. So maybe my elation isn't justified? Or maybe it's just out of scale? I don't know. Would my relief/excitement/joy be greater if there was "real" cause for concern? Certainly. And what about if I'd actually had cancer and beat it? I can't imagine the jubilation.

Seriously, I can't imagine -- and fervently pray I never know.

Here's what I do know: Right now, today, I DON'T HAVE COLON CANCER. And that is super-fantastically amazing. Phenomenal. Blessedly wonderful. A cause for my most favorite prayer of all:

THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!!!

Amen, amen, and amen!!!


And as a little PSA, let me just say that if you are 50 or older, or have a history of colon cancer in your family, you owe it to yourself and your loved ones to HAVE A COLONOSCOPY. Yes, the prep blows (literally and figuratively), but you won't be sorry. Early detection can save your life -- and your colon! Take care of yourself! Lots of people out there love you... and if you're actually reading this, I'm probably one of them.

An attitude of gratitude

You may have noticed a trend on this here blog lately.

I've started an admittedly cheesy but entirely worthwhile habit: Spending a couple of minutes every night recalling a few things from the day for which I am grateful. This is not an even remotely original idea and if you really must know I got it from someone I heard on Oprah.

That's right, Oprah. I mean the woman must be doing something right, don't you think?

So anyway -- it seemed a good idea to me, this notion of purposely reflecting back on the good rather than the bad. I mean dwelling on the negative is a no-brainer, something I can fall into like a soft leather easy chair: comfortable, familiar, inviting. My mind lands there almost in spite of itself but I really have to wonder why, because it certainly doesn't do the rest of my body any favors. Knots in my stomach, a clenched jaw, tight shoulders, and a headache every night are not exactly the way I like to wrap up my day. But that's just what I've managed to do on more nights than I care to remember.

The interesting side effect is that I find myself a lot more mindful all day long of the many small things for which I truly am grateful. A particularly funny response from a three year old, puffy white clouds morphing across the sky, a freshly swept floor, an unexpected note from a friend -- all of these things really are fantastic if you think about them. All those little joys there for the taking, but only if you take the time to appreciate them.

Right now I am filthy, covered literally from head to toe in dust and dirt and pollen, but I couldn't be happier. It's my merit badge for a day well-spent, enjoying the sun and the breeze with my family and working the earth to finally realize years of dreams for this home of ours. I'm hungry after a day of working in a way that my desk job doesn't allow, but I'm thankful. The physical effort is a gift to my body. I'm tired, but I'm content. These weary bones have a cozy bed and soft pillow to crawl into tonight and are sure to get all the rest they need before another day begins tomorrow.

I'm filthy and hungry and tired, and couldn't be more grateful for it. What a blessing.

Let me tell you about happiness in a cookie

I'm just saying: OH. MY. STARS.

First, start with your favorite sugar cookie recipe. Any one you like. I like this one:

I'd share the recipe with you, but Betty's not talking.

To your recipe add a little twist in the way of orange. Orange zest would be the BEST, but I didn't have any oranges, so I used orange extract.

How much? I don't measure. Surely you knew that about me already -- right? But if you just must have some guidelines, I'd say about 1 tsp zest or 1/2 tsp extract. Maybe more, maybe less. Hey look: I'm no Ina. And you're not paying for this little piece of genius, so just work it out. You'll be fine.

I am not a fancy cut-out sugar cookie kinda gal. Oh, I'd like to be, but let's face facts here for a minute: As I type this I have five baskets of laundry upstairs that I'm not doing and several kitty litter boxes I'm not asking Rob to clean out. I may or may not have had clean underwear to put on this morning (too much information?), and meal preparation for the last couple of weeks has been strictly optional. So -- I'll drop these cookies, thank you very much. But I'll use my grandmother's fancy cookie scoops to do it. I'm not a barbarian.

Once your orange-spiked cookies are done make sure they're fully cooled. I accomplished this by making mine about two weeks ago and parking them in the freezer.

Works every time.

Now comes magic time. Make yourself some frosting, starting with 1 stick of melted butter. Mix in some powdered sugar, cinnamon, and a little half & half (milk or water would also do but come on -- you've already got a stick of butter in there). Stir until you have smooth, velvety, cinnamon frosting.

Amounts again? People, people, people... I. Don't. Measure. Pay attention! But if you insist (and you seem to be insisting), I'd guess ~2.5 cups of powdered sugar and ~1 TBS of half & half. Mix the sugar into the butter til you have something that looks like dry/crumbly cookie dough, then add the liquid, a little bit at a time, til you have bliss. Sweet, blessed, cinnamony bliss.

Do not -- and I really cannot emphasize this enough -- do NOT slather this all over your body. You'll be tempted to (and your husband might really love you for it), but if you do you won't have enough for the cookies.

About 36 of them, to be precise (because I know you're all about the numbers). You'll have enough of this perfection to generously frost three dozen two-inch cookies. You might even have a little left over.

And what you choose to do with the excess is strictly between you & your spatula. I'm just sayin'.

Evensong

Summer always seems to be my reading season - which is funny, because I always think of myself as a "reader," when the truth is I'm more of a reader-wannabe. Like so many things, actually.

But I digress.

Since I had the itch to read (it being summer and all) but no new books in the queue, I found myself staring at my sister's bookshelf one night looking for something good. I wasn't even all that particular, it just needed to be good. So when I ran across Anne Lamott's Traveling Mercies again I cracked it open right away and set to reading.

Didn't take me long to remember why it's been so long since I've picked this one up, because although it is good (very very good) the first section also leaves me a little raw, with all that talk of Death and Cancer. It's a bit much for this orphaned girl. But I plowed through and I'm so glad I did, because although Anne and I certainly don't ride the same political train I do find myself more or less eye to eye with her when it comes to spirituality. Namely, that I'm doing the best I can and thank God for the grace to get it wrong some times. Or, if you must know, most of the time.

I remember when Mom was sick and I had run out of rational arguments, absurd bargains, and desperate pleas, I took Anne's approach to prayer which amounted to nothing more than "Help." Every night: "Help. Please. Help." And although that didn't turn out quite like I had hoped I still pray that way today, particularly when I'm smart enough to realize that whatever it is I'm praying for is way bigger than I understand.

Big like, say, motherhood. Sara has created this nightly ritual, one where she has somehow convinced me that it's best for her to come lay down with me in my bed when it's time for her to go to sleep. And you know I'm sure there are a bunch of reasons why this is a terrible parenting move, but here's the deal: Before I know it she'll want nothing to do with me, so I'm taking it while I can get it.

On those nights when I don't fall asleep too, I often spend a few minutes just looking at her. It's the total Hallmark moment, right? I know, I know. I see your eyes rolling from here. But what are you gonna do? Hallmark makes a point, and in this case it's that time is passing far too quickly so I'm soaking up every last bit of her while I'm able.

My kid... my kid! I never knew. This head-over-heels thing is for real. She brings out the best and the worst in me (sometimes within minutes of each other). She makes me work harder than anyone or anything else. She makes me feel like Wonder Woman and like a complete idiot (again, sometimes within minutes of each other). I can never quite grasp that there is part of me floating around in there, in her DNA and in her memories and in her character. Honestly, how can that be? And as if that weren't enough? She loves me! Total, unfiltered, raw, honest love.

Holy smokes.

I think that God gives us children who are whole. Not completed, but whole -- like a brand new puzzle in a box, with all the pieces that fit perfectly together. We're bound to muck some of them up, but the goal is to keep all the pieces intact, and lock them together over time to reveal the unique, beautiful people that they are. David had it right in his psalm praising God's handiwork in the smallest details of our lives: fearfully and wonderfully made, known inside & out, crafted just as He planned.

And to think, it's our job to put the pieces together. Not lose any. Not bang up the edges too much by forcing the pieces where they don't belong. Not work out the easy parts and leave the tricky parts for someone else to deal with. Not chuck it all because it wasn't what we thought it was, or because it's just too hard.

Seriously y'all: HOLY. SMOKES.

So tonight, when I realized all of this and couldn't find the words I really needed to say, I asked God again: "Help. Please. Help." Help me keep her whole, fit together the way you've intended.

Help. Please.

Amen.

The long ride to preschool

I'm not sure how my mind got there.

I was just driving from work to Fairview last week, undoubtedly thinking great thoughts -- so great, in fact, that I can't recall a single one of them. Most likely it had to do with work and some things that I expect to come to pass over the next 18 - 24 months. I'm not looking forward to these changes. In fact, they might be deal-breakers for me.

And this is where the memory of my great thoughts becomes quite clear. I remember coming to that conclusion -- that if what I expect to happen actually comes to pass it could be a deal-breaker for me -- and thinking "Boy, do you have a lot of nerve." How many people lost their jobs last year, and along with them their savings, their possessions, even their homes? How many people would fight tooth & nail for a good, secure job today? How many people are scratching to make ends meet, thankful for the paychecks they bring home to their families? And here I am, suggesting that a change in my work environment just might cause me to kick my career to the curb? Boy, I do have a lot of nerve.

I know all of that. And while I often grouse about my job I am thankful that I have a certain set of skills and talent that someone is willing to pay for. The income that my job provides is vital. I'm not going to chuck it all because I don't like the new logo or am irritated by the new company line.

But here's the rest of the story: Economic crisis aside, it has never been in my makeup to imagine that there could be something else beyond what is laid out before me. I work in a setting where, with my particular background, there are not a lot of different career paths to choose from. Early on most of us decide on educational versus medical tracks; once you've established yourself & developed certain areas of expertise, that's pretty much your professional lot. At least this is how I have experienced it and how I have observed it in the lives of my colleagues.

It never occurred to me that maybe I had options.

It never occurred to me that other people had already figured this out.

By now, I was out of the car and walking the path up to the church. The significance of my epiphany wasn't lost on me. It's pretty liberating to realize that it really isn't crazy to think about chucking it all. Lots of people have done it and been incredibly successful in the process. There must be a way, a method of getting from A to B to C that people follow. It's different for eveyone, I'm sure. But there have to be common threads.

But it wasn't until I got to the door that the bigger lesson (yes, bigger than the freedom to change your life's work) hit me: I have to make sure that my daughter doesn't get caught in my trap. I have to make sure that she isn't snagged by the fear of change and failure that has left me blind to the fact that I can reshape things. I have to figure out what it takes to be able to do this, and I have to be sure that Sara knows that her path is not a long road without turning, but a winding, hilly journey -- and the joy of life is in the bends and turns of that journey, not the comfort of a smooth, straight, uneventful path.

I'd say it's about time for me to buckle up and enjoy this ride. Wouldn't you?

Rag doll

I just woke up from the second best nap EVER.

It didn't quite pass the high bar set by The Great Nap of 2006, but man, oh man -- it was close.

I'm so relaxed I'm not sure how I'm managing to sit upright.

The only couture that would fit me

Hey!

You may have noticed that I am becoming more & more interested in all things free.

WELL.

How's about a free mini PC?

It's true! Jenny Rapson over at Blissful Style is coordinating a giveaway of one HP Mini 1000 - Vivienne Tam edition! It is small, it is lightweight, it is fast.

Most importantly, it is cute.

As a shameless pursuer of all things free, I have entered -- and I really want to win.

How about you?

That's one small library tote for Sara, one giant leap for Mamakind

You have to understand where I'm coming from: My mom? Not a domestic diva. She could sew a button on Dad's pants when under extreme duress, but that was about it. Anything "fancy" -- like hemming pants, let's say? -- required a trip to the tailor on Broad Ripple Avenue. (Who, I swear, is the same first-generation American tailor wearing the same sandals with the same white socks today, just like he did when I was a kid. Ah, consistency.)

So it's not like she taught me the ins & outs of sewing. We didn't have a sewing machine to be sure. And my few encounters with the sewing nazis at Joann's didn't exactly give me a warm fuzzy feeling about taking it up as a new hobby. In fact, even friends and family members that I had observed in action seemed to morph into something a little less than "exuberant" when I watched them put their Singers into action.

Still, I am particular enough, and creative enough, and cheap enough that I decided that I needed to learn how to sew. For real. My sister got me a sewing machine two Christmases ago, and I was very excited about. Then I found excuses (some of them actually valid) not to pull it out. The thing seemed ironic in every way: archaic, yet mechanically beyond my mental grasp; freeing, yet paralyzing; full of potential, yet fruitless without me doing... something.

So one day I threw caution to the wind and pulled it out. I spent an hour just working up the courage to turn the blessed thing on. And then?

Then I jammed it.

My first "project" was to make some placemats for Sara - because if there is one thing I feel strongly about, it is providing my child with seasonally-appropriate placemats. So I cobbled together two of them: a red one for Valentine's Day and a green Snoopy one for St. Patrick's Day. I didn't actually measure, or bother to cut straight lines -- and it showed -- but at the end of the evening I had produced two functional, if not fashionable, seasonal placemats for my three-year-old.

And this is the point in the story where you learn about my tendency to exercise poor judgement while basking in the glow of minor victories. Thinking I had made it over the learning-to-sew hump I decided I could make a simple denim jumper for Sara. The pattern said "VERY EASY," after all. How hard could it be?

Turns out, very hard. At least when you don't know what you're doing. I should have put the fabric back when I realized I didn't understand how much I was supposed to buy (ah, the lure of the fabric.... but that's another post). As luck would have it, that day I happened to meet the only pleasant sewing lady on the north side of Indianapolis*. She didn't snarl at me when I asked her if she could cut fabric for me, and despite my absolute certainty that she would sneer, like all the others before her, when I admitted that I was little more than an amateur she was actually helpful. Helpful!

Too bad she wasn't so helpful as to come back to my house and walk me through that blasted jumper because making it was, shall we say, treacherous. Sara wore it once (yes once!), so the week I spent making it wasn't a complete waste. (But mostly.)

This little reality check slowed me down quite a bit. The sewing machine seemed to mock me from the corner, knowing as well as I did that I really wasn't worthy. It sat, unused, for weeks on end. Eventually Rob took it back to our house where it sat perched atop an old loo gathering dust. At least I felt like I was having the last metaphorical laugh.

But eventually the bug bit again. Sara's doll cradle needed a new matress and I decided that if I couldn't sew something acceptable to a three-year-old then I shouldn't sew anything at all. And so I did. And she loved it.

Stoked by this apparent turning of the tide, I dared to imagine other small projects: Blankets for her baby dolls. Maybe a pillow for the cradle. Maybe...

A tote bag.

And then we took this wonderful trip to the library, and I knew it would happen. Because my kid? She had to have a book bag. A cute one, too.

So I scoured the internets for the perfect (read: simple) pattern, something cute and not too boring but one that wouldn't cast me into a pit of despair like the demon jumper before it. Two weeks later, I found it: The Pink October.

God bless Dianne Hadaway and her site for sharing this pattern -- along with simple, illustrated instructions (and a tutorial on boxed corners!) -- with the masses. After I read through the directions three times, stepped away for a couple of days, read them again, slept on it, had a strong cup of coffee, and read them again, I felt ready.**

Eight hours later?

Sara's library tote. With a pocket! And a coordinating fabric to line it! I lined something! And just to prove that it all was, indeed, meant to be, the child loves it. LOVES. IT. And it fits her books perfectly -- just big enough that it holds her Stella and Clifford books while still being manageable when full.

Ah, sewing machine. I am still not your match. You have settings I can only dream of using and your bobbin still vexes me. But I'm not through with you yet.

I'll be back.

Yes, I know the Dora undershirt is ridiculously small. I'll let you take it up with her next time she insists on wearing it.

*OK technically, Carmel. Which is counter-intuitive but a fact nonetheless.

**This should in no way imply that Dianne's instructions were inadequate, incomplete or poorly written; instead this should absolutely imply that the reader of said instructions (me) was incompetent.

Late night conversation (when late is eight)

When you're three, five must seem like an awful lot.  It's nearly twice your age and manages to use up all your fingers.  It's a lot.  Just ask Sara.

Last night as I was laying with her before she fell asleep, Sara asked me who my best friend was.  Then she said -- "I know, Papa and me."  Who could argue?  She seemed very impressed that I have two best friends.  Not content to stop there, she quickly said "Oh wait, Grandma and Grampa are your best friends, too.  You have FOUR best friends!" and proudly showed me her four fingers.  By now I could see where this was going, so I waited to see who lucky number five would be.  Nana?  My sister?  Pete, our cat?

"Oh Mama!  Jesus is your other best friend.  You have FIVE best friends!  Wow that is a lot!"

This girl.  So smart.  She kills me.