Cross-eyed and scrambled

A long good day. Zzz.

Giving Thanks, Day 6

Most of what I'm thankful for today goes beyond my words, but here are some of the beautiful parts I know how to say in English:

•prayer
•perspective
•wool, wool, wool, and wool tweed
•terrific teaching resources
•fasting
•renewal
•people who say yes because they want to
•people who aren't hesitant to express affection
•sacrament
•a day of worship and service
•when a community becomes like a family
•sincere and purposeful self-disclosure
•sharing spiritual experiences
•the little girl who snorted super loudly behind me in church when everybody else said, "Amen"
•good hearts
•good intentions (that even occasionally produce good results)
•honesty
•the constant need for change
•forgiveness
•teaching
•learning
•listening before speaking, sometimes without speaking
•dependability
•letting go of the need to be perfect
•introducing a roomful of women to our Good Riddance tradition with a mini-bonfire
•making healthy commitments
•the thrill of discovering something true
•giving openly in a new friendship
•intuition
•inspiration
•laughter
•responsibility
•delegation
•cooperation
•big plans
•little plans
•kindnesses, anonymous and not
•respect
•patience
•compassion
•Rob's salad
•in-laws
•watching a friend dress to impress a girl and be on his best behavior during our family dinner
•thinking I had lost this draft and then finding it

Thank you, mamm.

A couple nights ago I dreamed that—

I looked into a mirror and noticed a grain of sleep in the corner of my left eye. I rubbed it away and it was yellow, like maybe I had a bit of an infection. I leaned in closer to the mirror to get a better look and pulled my eyelid open, out to the side. Hiding next to my eyeball, I saw a large mass, maybe an inch across. It was a strange smooth green, not a friendly-looking sort of thing. I stretched my eyelid open even more and turned it almost inside out as I pushed the thing out with my fingers. It fell into the sink. Looking deeply into my own eye again, I felt satisfied there was nothing left of the infection. It had all come out at once.

I thought about the dream a long time and hoped it was a sign that soon I would get a report from my surgeon saying that I am now clear, and that I don't have to worry any longer about a malignancy. I've also been playing around with another interpretation: that something infectious and hidden has been threatening my vision, but a recent discovery has brought it to light, and I am able to rid myself of the danger, though the process is an unusual stretch. I imagine the answer is a hybrid of those two ideas.

I can claim that because we just got word a little while ago about my pathology report: BENIGN.

BENIGN! BENIGN! BENIGN!

I want to thank you, dear Bucket Brigade, for all your kindness and love and prayers and good thoughts and support. Thank you for indulging me and for patiently reading a few too many emails about a problem that was far less heavy than some of what you are presently dealing with. You are good people, the best. I love you. Thank you for extending your friendship and faith in our behalf. I've learned a lot from you.

I have to tell you this. There was a time early on, when I started receiving some responses to my initial call for prayers, etc.—it was that Saturday when we fasted for help—that I felt something I'd never felt before, and it was about you. I could FEEL the energies you were investing in Rob and me, via your prayers, anxious and hopeful thoughts, and whatever ways you chose to be with us. My heart was moved in a new way. I don't know how to describe correctly the thing that happened inside me, except to say that I prayed for you too that weekend, for every one of you, as well as for the ones I would never know were enlisted in the Brigade. I asked God to bless you in your heartaches and troubles and dreams, and—here's the interesting part—I asked him to bless you forever for the love you were sending and would send our way through this scary blink of time. (How, how, how can I say that so it comes across to you as big as what I felt and still feel? Augh! Words are such a bother sometimes.) There will never come a day when I stop appreciating the sweet fine gifts of encouragement and compassion you've shared with us, whether I actually heard or read them or whether you kept them quiet and private. Every day as long as I exist someplace those energies will be important to me, and will be part of who I am and what propels me forward. Your gifts are never-ending. It kind of blows my mind. Even if next year some of you disown me (please don't) or worse (don't), what you created for me/us in our vulnerable time will continue to be. Am I making sense? It was the greatest feeling to have the sense of one giant round of concern circling, to pray for you while you were praying for me. I'm still praying for you.

So. So there.

Did you hear? It's BENIGN! (Good job, Brigade.)

P.S. Clarification for a few people who expressed confusion about the details of surgery, etc.—The alien mass inside me was right up against my chest wall and that made it impossible for the surgeon to do a simple biopsy. I didn't have a mastectomy; I had kind of a two-in-one operation; the surgeon opened me up and took out the mass and surrounding tissues, and sent it to the lab for analysis. Since he had to go in like that just to do the initial biopsy it made sense to try to remove the entire problem on the first go in order to hopefully avoid a second surgery if the biopsy came back malignant. Does that make more sense than whatever I said the first time? Bottom line for now: NO malignancy, NO second operation. Just vigilant mammograms from here on out. (Oh, joy.)

Bring me little water, Sylvie

I started this post over a week ago, during the time when I sent out my battle cry for prayers. This was the song in my heart the day that we fasted together and I'm singing it again right now. I dedicate it to you. Of course there's a story that goes with it, but that's going to have to wait a little longer till I have time to finish writing it out—maybe later today, maybe Wednesday. Meanwhile, I'll just say this—when I let my little world know about this cancer scare Rob and I are facing and asked for support, one of my brothers-in-law was quick to respond and commit his family of six to carrying buckets of love and faith and healing effort to help put out this fire. Suddenly I saw in my mind's eye an entire "village" of family and friends and caring neighbors turning out and forming one big beautiful bucket brigade. I can't tell you how it touched me.

We are all part of each other's bucket brigades, and I love that. I'm here to help you put out your fires and you're here to help me put out mine. And if the flames turn out to be stronger than we are, we can at least roast marshmallows and make s'mores.

When I came across this song last weekend I listened to it a zillion times, and laughed and cried. I thought of you. This song's for you!

(Characteristically rambling story to come later, I promise.)

P.S. THANK YOU, darling C Jane, and THANK YOU, Red Apple Cottage for treating me and my sweet to a night in San Pete! I'm thrilled!)

Calling all angels

I've got some things to say.

They won't be in any particular order because I'm writing this at an hour which feels very early after staying awake very late. The sequential part of my brain's a bit scrambled. That leaves my all-things-at-once brain in charge.

So first then, I suppose because it was the last thing to happen, is the plum. Because I am a light sleeper and because my bedmate is an unquiet sleeper, every night I stuff orange and purple foamy bullets into my ears that block out sounds—sounds like logs being sawn, alarm clocks, midnight ice cream trucks, and yowling cats—so Rob necessarily and voluntarily functions as my bones-stirrer when it's time to get up, or as was the case last night, to dose me with meds. Last night it was ibuprofen every four hours for cramps. Routine stuff, just ask the moon.

My last pain killers were delivered past daybreak, along with two marble-sized orange tomatoes fresh from the garden, and a proudly-announced "first plum" from our own tree. I laughed myself awake at the thought of it; when we bought this house several years ago, we were told that the monster plum tree was purely decorative. You've never seen a plum tree so large—by this summer it was officially eating our house as well as the neighbors' shed—and you've also never seen plums so small—tiny, tight, but strangely tasty bird-fruits—useless purple knots only a beak could love. I take that back; my dog truffle-sniffed them in the backyard as often as he could get away with it and it wasn't pretty when he got hold of too many.

We'd toyed with taking the mutant tree down, but could never quite bring ourselves to it, since it had a beautiful trunk and offered us so much shade. So this spring, after seeing the results when my friend next door hired some simple tree trimming work, I started calling around. The first guy came and choked me with a costly estimate, but I signed my name to it and set up a time. He blew me off repeatedly. A second guy committed too, but likewise blew me off and never called back. The third guy I rang up in desperation, a large quiet Polynesian man named Solomon, came through. His charge was even higher than the one quoted me by the first guy, but by then I was so determined to save my tree that I didn't care. Solomon showed up early one morning with a squad of people, and they spent all day long dangling in my tree and sitting on my wall, working, laughing, eating, jawing, sawing, cutting, and unhurriedly dropping limb after limb after limb until my backyard and the neighbors' too were waist-deep in debris. I hoped the plum tree understood the necessity of what was happening. It was a hard operation to watch even from inside the house, so mostly I didn't.

When they were finished, I waited till they'd completely cleaned up and hauled away the wreckage to go outside and inspect. I waited till I was sure the jolly squad wasn't coming back. When the silence finally felt permanent, I slipped out into the backyard to speak to our tree. It was quite a shock to see it after the treatment. Lots and lots of empty space. Suckers gone. Limbs gone. Vanished even was the big limb where I'd planned to hang a feeder and a bath for the birds, right outside my office window. So much was cut away and it seemed that very little shade was left; the sunshine moved freely through the tree.

"This tree hasn't been topped or trimmed in at least 60 years, or maybe ever," an expert told us. We figure the person who built our house planted this tree at the same time, and enjoyed its fruit for a while, but then never troubled about its care. The fruit grew useless over time, and the tree unruly.

That night I slipped into the backyard and climbed up the wall next to the tree and perched there with my arms around it, watching a full moon through its remaining branches. I don't remember if I apologized, but I'm sure I talked to the tree. I know what you're thinking: crazy tree-hugger. Tell me, what's the strangest thing you've hugged, hm?

This morning there in the dark bedroom when Rob offered me the first fruit from our tree, I was surprised when I popped it into my mouth and bit down into fleshy, juicy, lovely sweetness. It was petite, certainly, but nothing like the tiny bird-fruit that's been littering our patio and lawn by the thousands summer after summer. What a surprise!

And what good timing for a symbol of renewal. I needed that plum today. I was going to write about more than tree-trimming and fruit-bearing, but the plum-talk's taken me so long to get through that it's time now for me to quit writing and have breakfast and a day. I will tell you one thing though, and come back to the other stories later. Something in my body has grown unruly too, and soon I will be undergoing some trimming myself. It seems I am a potential candidate for breast cancer. Maybe the simplest way to express it at this point is to cut and paste an email I sent out to some of our family and friends late last night. If you are family or friend (or both!) and didn't get this, you probably will soon, if I can find your email address (even Gmail isn't powerful enough to organize somebody like me—I'm something of a scattered soul).

Dear folks—

Just a short note—Rob and I would like to request your prayers, good thoughts, and your companionship in fasting with us. I went for a mammogram last week and had to go back to the hospital for more tests today, and those tests revealed a problem—I have some trouble that is going to require surgical intervention and biopsy. Order of preference:

(1) Miraculous healing, story published in the Ensign magazine, Ripley's Believe It or Not, or at least on my blog.
(2) Benign.
(3) If malignant, then an isolated occurrence which is removed in its entirety; curable.
(4) There is no four. I do not wish to have cancer, and that's pretty much that. And I don't like the pink ribbon.

Right now I am scheduled for a consultation with a surgeon on the 17th of August, which was the soonest I could be squeezed in. It's possible that my GYN will be able to pull some strings on Monday and get me in sooner, and with the doctor she trusts most: Jennifer Tittensor. (Really, can you believe that name for a breast cancer doc?) Maybe some prayers to that end would also be helpful.

If you feel you can throw your faith in with ours, that will be so wonderful. We need all the support we can get. Feel free to recruit others' faith too, if you feel that's an appropriate choice for you. (It's late and I'm rattling emails off the top of my head and I know I'm missing some important names, so please, help the senile.)

We love you,
Georgia & Rob

So, angels, I'm calling on you to share your strength and faith, whatever it may be. If I didn't love and trust you, I wouldn't ask.

Hopefully the fruit to follow this traumatic pruning will also be better and sweeter.

(P.S. This vid was recorded on my birthday last year!)

Catching up on Project 365: March 6

We live on a relatively quiet street, nobody's regular route except for the houseful of little boys around the corner; they keep the pavement hot with all manner of self-propelled wheeled contraptions. Other than that? Mainly neighbors driving to and from work.

This morning while Rob and I were eating breakfast, something unexpected drove past our house. "Look! A bus!" Rob said with surprise. I looked out the window in time to see its back end heading west. Hmph. That's odd. What's a tour bus doing on our street?

We went back to our breakfast, but a few minutes later, the bus drove past our house again. We both jumped up for a better look at it. Gray Lines of Seattle. "Maybe John S. is here for a visit," Rob laughed. I wish. (John? Are you reading this?)

We let our food get cold. Is the bus coming back? We watched out the east window and in a few minutes, here it came again. "Maybe it's a sign," I said. "Maybe we should run outside and stick out our thumbs." As yearning thoughts for the Pacific NW hung in the air, the bus stopped, right in front of our house. "They're waiting for us!" I exclaimed.

We stared as the driver got out of his seat and began to back down the steps, but he didn't open the door. He perched and waited as another person took his place behind the wheel, then the first driver stepped up into the bus again, and off they went toward the west.

"Do you think they're coming back?"

Breakfast was pretty much over by then. We were too enthralled to finish eating. I finally thought to grab my camera, but wasn't dressed for outside yet, so all I could do was stand somewhat scandalously on my glassed-in front porch and shoot a few quick shots through the window and leaning out the storm door as our bus drove past for a fourth time.

Hoping for better shots, I dashed in and pulled on some workout pants and a fleece and ran outside, Nikon poised. The bus never came back. The visitation from Seattle was over.

What does it mean?

I guess it means we are very easily entertained, and we both want to spend time again in Washington and Oregon . . . or anywhere.

And it means, John S., that you really should get off the bus next time and be our guest for a while.

This household needs some excitement.



For those of you who might be wondering if we went back to feast on Torment after our first failed attempt, I can assure you that yes, yes, we did.

Rob and I had a reunion to go to in the evening, but no dinner was going to be provided, so we left home with what we thought was just enough time to get in and out of Torment before joining our old neighborhood friends. As we neared the taqueria, I asked Rob, "Hey, what if they aren't open . . . again?" We laughed about it, and joked about how that really would be a great torment, to put the word out over and over that a restaurant was opening, and then never let anyone in. Ha ha. So we pulled up to the front door, where two guys were working—one upgrading the old sign with bright bright yellow paint, and the other, the fellow we met on March Forth, still fussing with the front door. They turned around to look at us, each grinning with more glowing teeth than the Cheshire Cat, and said in unison, "To-morrow." We drove away hungry, and laughing at how this place was really living up to its name. Then I had Rob circle around so I could snap a shot.

Oh, yes, hermanos, we'll be back. You can torture us all you want. You can't keep a coupla good gringos down.

Sharing a hurt

It seems to me that most of you few good souls who follow my blog probably know Nie from NieNie Dialogues and love her, like I do. If you haven't checked in with Google Reader already this weekend, or heard the awful news from a neighbor in the bloggerhood, then you need to know that Nie and Mr. Nielson have been in a terrible accident, a plane crash, and are, according to family reports, in critical condition. I know that you will want to join me, in whatever way works with your personal beliefs and faith, in offering up prayers and positive, hopeful thoughts and healing support. The families and many of the friends of Stephanie and Christian Neilson will be fasting and praying for them tomorrow, and we have all been invited to join them. Have you ever fasted before? This is how Latter-day Saints approach fasting. However you choose to express your faith in behalf of these dear people, please keep them and their suffering families close to your heart.

I've been reading Nie for a long time now. I often check in on her delightful household while other blog posts pile up in my Reader. The thing that keeps going through my mind is that Nie and Mr. Nielson and their children are one of those families who prove, time and again, that life is beautiful and can be so full of joy with just a little effort.

God bless the Nielsons and their anxious families. Let's each show our gratitude for bright, dear friends and do our part to petition for those blessings we wish for them.