All around me are the living, breathing examples of courage born by those who never thought themselves capable of their feats. Where did they come from? How were they prepared - or were they? Is courage an innate character trait or are we simply thrust into it under a given set of circumstances? I believe that courage is what we exhibit when pulling ourselves up by the bootstraps under the strain of dangerous or stressful life events, but also what we exhibit in the smallest of ways, in simply stepping out of our box and being who we are called on to be in spite of our fears.
I just finished reading Always Looking Up by Michael J. Fox. In it he draws a distinction between the work he does with his foundation, a result of his being stricken with Parkinson's Disease, and those who undertake a noble cause not because they have been touched personally by the cause itself, but are involved simply because it's the right or just thing. Of course I'm wildly paraphrasing, but his point was about courage. He was courageous for taking on PD, yet it was a natural extension of his circumstances. So, are we all bound by the same rule - only to stretch ourselves into those areas where we are likewise affected? What about a passion for that cause unrelated to ourselves; one where we throw ourselves at the solution with abandon just because it's worthy?
When we identify that which is worthy, what keeps us standing on the sidelines? We can pretend it's a conflict of interest or schedule, we're just too tired, it's none of our business, or simply that our voice will be drowned out. Besides, who are we that anyone would be inclined to listen to us anyway? What could we possibly have to offer that hasn't been tried already by others with more money, a louder voice, or more political weight to throw around?
Here's the deal: it doesn't matter! We're not called to be who we are based on what those around us are doing with their time and efforts. We are here to maintain a since of integrity, in essence to be the person on the outside that truly coincides with the person on the inside - the same within as without. Isn't that what we look for in the mirror, in others and what we hope to instill in our future generations? Don't live a lie. Live with passion, and at every opportunity, stand up and be counted because the courage is in the standing up and if you are beaten down in the getting back up again.
I'm making a stand not to live my life in fear anymore. I won't be discouraged by naysayers, nor downtrodden by those who feel challenged by what I stand for or by the success that may come my way. It's like the proverbial kid in the classroom itching to ask the question that is really on every student's mind. I used to be that kid, fearful to ask the question because of what others might think. Now I know that by speaking up, not only am I destined to find my answers, but in the process help others find their answers as well. Courage - it's contagious. Today Michael J. Fox gave it to me, just as I hope to someday give it to others, starting with my children.
Thank you, Carolyn and Jackie, for making me believe that what I have to say matters. Today you are my heroes, along with Michael J. Fox.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Let's Be Honest: Reconstruction Sucks
The first four inflations of my tissue expanders were a breeze. I thought the rest of this process would be a walk in the park. Then the fifth, sixth, and now seventh inflations have come and gone. Well, gone isn't entirely accurate. The fifth created intense pain for three days and was similar to the initial pain of my surgery. The sixth caused that same level of pain that lasted for four days. As of yesterday, my seventh came and is still lingering. I expect it to last at least four days. I may have two whole relatively pain-free days before my next inflation since they are once a week. Thank God for my son or I would be in a much larger heap of pain.
Waking up is the worst part. As with anyone who suffers aches and pains, they are normally more manifest upon lifting yourself out of bed during the first moments of your day. Mine is no different. I find myself holding onto my left "boob" like it's in danger of falling off. I clinch my left arm across my chest under the breast mound and hold tight to the right side of my sleep shirt. Meanwhile my right hand finds it's way as far down the edge of our pillow top mattress as possible. As I tug with my right hand to pull myself up, I hold my breath to stifle any attempt my brain might make at registering the pain as a gasp, thereby waking my husband or a sleeping baby. This is how I wake up most mornings since June 17, 2010, and how I will function for the foreseeable future.
Making my way to the bathroom, still holding my left breast mound in place, I locate my dose of morning pills that includes a Valium (for the instant muscles spasms) and ibuprofen I hope will kick in before I'm called on to lift a 25 pound baby from a crib. It's funny how I used to resent having to take my daily Synthroid (I have hypothyroidism) because I've never been a pill taker. Yet here I am now with my little S-M-T-W-T-F-S container to keep them all straight. I look forward to conveniently "losing" that pill container in the not distant future!
My breast mounds, because I can't really begin to think of them as boobs to be honest, are beginning to take a shape I can recognize. Who would've thought this would be fraught with dangers? I've grown so accustomed to not having any boobs that I have begun to move differently through the house. I found myself cutting corners more sharply, or only opening one side of the pantry door because let's face it, my boobs weren't calling for me to open the other side to accommodate a wider load. Well, all of that is a thing of the past. In the last 48 hours my boobs have run into doors, walls, and the refrigerator door. Come on, really! I don't recall this being an issue before. The really funny thing is that I mostly can't feel it except that in that instant my forward progress is thrown off as I'm launched into an unintended rotation, thereby hitting my other boob on the pantry's door frame. It's just too odd not to tell.
See, someday I'll have all this over and done with and these memories will begin to fade. For now at least I can recount them and use the humor to help me over the hump that is this reconstruction process. Or would it be more accurate to say humps?
Waking up is the worst part. As with anyone who suffers aches and pains, they are normally more manifest upon lifting yourself out of bed during the first moments of your day. Mine is no different. I find myself holding onto my left "boob" like it's in danger of falling off. I clinch my left arm across my chest under the breast mound and hold tight to the right side of my sleep shirt. Meanwhile my right hand finds it's way as far down the edge of our pillow top mattress as possible. As I tug with my right hand to pull myself up, I hold my breath to stifle any attempt my brain might make at registering the pain as a gasp, thereby waking my husband or a sleeping baby. This is how I wake up most mornings since June 17, 2010, and how I will function for the foreseeable future.
Making my way to the bathroom, still holding my left breast mound in place, I locate my dose of morning pills that includes a Valium (for the instant muscles spasms) and ibuprofen I hope will kick in before I'm called on to lift a 25 pound baby from a crib. It's funny how I used to resent having to take my daily Synthroid (I have hypothyroidism) because I've never been a pill taker. Yet here I am now with my little S-M-T-W-T-F-S container to keep them all straight. I look forward to conveniently "losing" that pill container in the not distant future!
My breast mounds, because I can't really begin to think of them as boobs to be honest, are beginning to take a shape I can recognize. Who would've thought this would be fraught with dangers? I've grown so accustomed to not having any boobs that I have begun to move differently through the house. I found myself cutting corners more sharply, or only opening one side of the pantry door because let's face it, my boobs weren't calling for me to open the other side to accommodate a wider load. Well, all of that is a thing of the past. In the last 48 hours my boobs have run into doors, walls, and the refrigerator door. Come on, really! I don't recall this being an issue before. The really funny thing is that I mostly can't feel it except that in that instant my forward progress is thrown off as I'm launched into an unintended rotation, thereby hitting my other boob on the pantry's door frame. It's just too odd not to tell.
See, someday I'll have all this over and done with and these memories will begin to fade. For now at least I can recount them and use the humor to help me over the hump that is this reconstruction process. Or would it be more accurate to say humps?
Monday, August 9, 2010
Ergonomic Boobs
Sharing a room with an infant can be a challenge, especially at bedtime. Our son goes to sleep hours before us and while we prepare for bed we have to pay close attention to not making an abundance of noise so as not to wake him. Tonight we were in the bathroom doing our usual prep routine, which recently has included rubbing lotion on my mastectomy scars. The lotion, Elta Lite, has helped to soften and smooth the scarred area. According to the doctor this should make my reconstruction look nicer.
Arie and I were joking around about something completely unrelated to my boobs, when we both began laughing and couldn't contain our noise. I leaned in to whisper something in his ear and when he stepped back he laughed even harder and told me he only heard half of what I'd said. The rest, he said, had sounded like swishing noises. I invited him into my office, a.k.a. my closet so we wouldn't wake the baby. We laughed so hard we fell into each other, hugging, and I told him how grateful I am that we understand each others sense of humor. Trust me, if I told you what had us laughing so hard you'd think we were quite strange. Some things are meant to be kept just between a husband and wife. Having said that, you are seriously going to wonder what I would feel the need to hold in such close confidence given what I'm about to divulge. . .
While we were hugging and laughing, I half jokingly asked him if he wanted to "feel me up". This has been a constant ritual since the inflations of my tissue expanders began. I think it's important that my husband really like the size and feel of my boobs since he's the one who will get all the pleasure from them once this whole reconstruction is complete. (Sounds like we're renovating, which I guess is sort of accurate.) This was his first opportunity to feel them since I had my last inflation. As he reached for my boobs with both hands - now mind you this wasn't a sensual thing by any means, but more like holding a peach firmly in your hands while contemplating whether it's the perfect firmness that makes you want to buy it - I told him he might want to feel the right one because it's more round. First he felt only the right one, then the left, and agreed with me that the right side was indeed more round. The left one feels slightly misshapen because the tissue expander has inflated somewhat more awkwardly than the other side. That's normal.
I said, "Aren't you glad the implants won't feel like these?" What I have now actually feels like rocks under my chest, a.k.a. (according to Arie) man pecks. I can actually make them flex up and down like Hulk Hogan, but I digress. Arie then reached up and put both hands on my boobs. He gave them a few good squeezes, then declared they'd be good for push-ups because they're "ergonomic". We both about died laughing! I never thought of having ergonomic boobs, but I guess that might be the best thing that comes out of this whole mastectomy. My husband will be happy and his hands will never grow weary because his wife's boobs are custom made to fit his palm size! I'd like to think he'd be equally considerate if he were having penis reconstruction. LOL
Arie and I were joking around about something completely unrelated to my boobs, when we both began laughing and couldn't contain our noise. I leaned in to whisper something in his ear and when he stepped back he laughed even harder and told me he only heard half of what I'd said. The rest, he said, had sounded like swishing noises. I invited him into my office, a.k.a. my closet so we wouldn't wake the baby. We laughed so hard we fell into each other, hugging, and I told him how grateful I am that we understand each others sense of humor. Trust me, if I told you what had us laughing so hard you'd think we were quite strange. Some things are meant to be kept just between a husband and wife. Having said that, you are seriously going to wonder what I would feel the need to hold in such close confidence given what I'm about to divulge. . .
While we were hugging and laughing, I half jokingly asked him if he wanted to "feel me up". This has been a constant ritual since the inflations of my tissue expanders began. I think it's important that my husband really like the size and feel of my boobs since he's the one who will get all the pleasure from them once this whole reconstruction is complete. (Sounds like we're renovating, which I guess is sort of accurate.) This was his first opportunity to feel them since I had my last inflation. As he reached for my boobs with both hands - now mind you this wasn't a sensual thing by any means, but more like holding a peach firmly in your hands while contemplating whether it's the perfect firmness that makes you want to buy it - I told him he might want to feel the right one because it's more round. First he felt only the right one, then the left, and agreed with me that the right side was indeed more round. The left one feels slightly misshapen because the tissue expander has inflated somewhat more awkwardly than the other side. That's normal.
I said, "Aren't you glad the implants won't feel like these?" What I have now actually feels like rocks under my chest, a.k.a. (according to Arie) man pecks. I can actually make them flex up and down like Hulk Hogan, but I digress. Arie then reached up and put both hands on my boobs. He gave them a few good squeezes, then declared they'd be good for push-ups because they're "ergonomic". We both about died laughing! I never thought of having ergonomic boobs, but I guess that might be the best thing that comes out of this whole mastectomy. My husband will be happy and his hands will never grow weary because his wife's boobs are custom made to fit his palm size! I'd like to think he'd be equally considerate if he were having penis reconstruction. LOL
Friday, August 6, 2010
And it's Only 10:31 A.M.
to bed, 9 pm
up with Karter at 10:30 pm
up all night
5:30 am, Karter sleeps
6 am Arie kisses me bye, says Lisse is up
Lisse up, play, bottle, snotty
Lisse down
reprieve
Lisse AND Karter up, snotty, crying
feeding, crying, snotty, can't breathe
nose sucker...they hate it!
crying, rubbing snot all over mouths and noses
smell the coffee, can't get to it
interrupted feeding...over and over...wiping snot
wow, Karter has another tooth
Oops...stepped in something.
Not sure if it's rice cereal or snot. Yuck.
Cleaning...
More snot...internet research...
crap, no medicines for this for kids under 4.
Pausing, silence
And it's only 10:31 am.
here we go again with more snot and crying...
up with Karter at 10:30 pm
up all night
5:30 am, Karter sleeps
6 am Arie kisses me bye, says Lisse is up
Lisse up, play, bottle, snotty
Lisse down
reprieve
Lisse AND Karter up, snotty, crying
feeding, crying, snotty, can't breathe
nose sucker...they hate it!
crying, rubbing snot all over mouths and noses
smell the coffee, can't get to it
interrupted feeding...over and over...wiping snot
wow, Karter has another tooth
Oops...stepped in something.
Not sure if it's rice cereal or snot. Yuck.
Cleaning...
More snot...internet research...
crap, no medicines for this for kids under 4.
Pausing, silence
And it's only 10:31 am.
here we go again with more snot and crying...
Thursday, August 5, 2010
The Dreaded Click
My daughter Lisse has a special ability. She is able to make a clicking sound about as loud as a bottlenose dolphin. Thankfully she doesn't click that fast or we would all be quite concerned about her genetics. However, this whole clicking thing is interesting to me and did I say loud? Oh yes.
It reminds me of my mom's whistle. When I was a kid it was understood that we were not to be any farther away from our mom than the distance her whistle could travel. In hindsight that was still too far to be away from mom considering her whistle could probably travel a mile! No kidding, she has a Lisse-like amazing ability to produce a whistle that you definitely want to wear hearing protection for should you be standing next to her. She blows out to whistle, which is something I have never been able to do, but my son Koen is very capable of. I'm beginning to think it's a genetic thing that skips generations like some twins. Oh, I might be onto something there.
So, back to the clicking. Recently Arie and I spent a nice evening together watching a movie. The time together was lovely and we desperately needed to unwind. The babies had been in bed a good, long time. We were able to watch the whole movie with no interruptions. I don't think we even had to stop for a potty break - a highly unusual accomplishment for us.
After the movie, we headed to our bedroom to turn in for the night. We brushed our teeth, did our potty business, then settled in for some much-needed rest. Both of us had our iPhones in hand for a short time, setting our alarm clocks, checking our e-mail one last time, etc. I even did a little reading of "In Praise of Stay-at-Home Moms" on my e-reader for a time before turning off my phone and setting it down next to the bed. Arie and I kissed each other good night, laid our heads down, and nestled into our comfy pillows. Not one whole minute went by, within which we'd not even begun to fully relax our muscles to allow for sleep and here it came. . .
Here is our exchange in those moments:
Audri: "Did you hear that?"
Arie: "Yep."
Audri: "Is that what I think it is?"
Arie: "Yep."
Audri: "Crap, she's wide awake!"
Arie: "Yeah."
(Those who don't really know my husband think this is his typical exchange. Lots of "yeahs" and "yeps". That's not really true for the record, but on this night it actually made for a little comic relief.)
We breathed a collective sigh.
So much for a good night's sleep. Arie had to be up early for work and I was on baby watch. The dreaded click had just indicated that I was not even close to being able to lie down. Dragging myself from the bed, I headed to Lisse's room to find her standing at her crib railing clicking like tomorrow had already come. She was already talking to me by the time I had her rail down and was lifting her from what should have been her sanctuary of slumber for at least another seven hours. I carried her to the living room where she was treated to a fresh one (a.k.a. diaper) and a cold one (a.k.a. bottle, not beer). Surprisingly, in spite of her initial bright-eyed, bushy-tailed appearance the clean diaper and soothing bottle zapped what was left of her energy. I would have bet you my next well-earned pedicure she was going to be up for a smooth hour at minimum. Imagine my relief when she was rubbing her eyes and back in bed in less than 20 minutes. Whew! Situation averted! It was time to finally hit the hay and as I was drifting into sleep I think I was actually praying that the dreaded click would not return.
Author's Note:
I understand now, ironically, that it was my mom who taught Lisse the "dreaded click." LOL Lisse also learned from Memere how to "whistle" for the dogs, only Lisse's whistle is more like a high-pitched, F sharp from the throat. LOL
It reminds me of my mom's whistle. When I was a kid it was understood that we were not to be any farther away from our mom than the distance her whistle could travel. In hindsight that was still too far to be away from mom considering her whistle could probably travel a mile! No kidding, she has a Lisse-like amazing ability to produce a whistle that you definitely want to wear hearing protection for should you be standing next to her. She blows out to whistle, which is something I have never been able to do, but my son Koen is very capable of. I'm beginning to think it's a genetic thing that skips generations like some twins. Oh, I might be onto something there.
So, back to the clicking. Recently Arie and I spent a nice evening together watching a movie. The time together was lovely and we desperately needed to unwind. The babies had been in bed a good, long time. We were able to watch the whole movie with no interruptions. I don't think we even had to stop for a potty break - a highly unusual accomplishment for us.
After the movie, we headed to our bedroom to turn in for the night. We brushed our teeth, did our potty business, then settled in for some much-needed rest. Both of us had our iPhones in hand for a short time, setting our alarm clocks, checking our e-mail one last time, etc. I even did a little reading of "In Praise of Stay-at-Home Moms" on my e-reader for a time before turning off my phone and setting it down next to the bed. Arie and I kissed each other good night, laid our heads down, and nestled into our comfy pillows. Not one whole minute went by, within which we'd not even begun to fully relax our muscles to allow for sleep and here it came. . .
Here is our exchange in those moments:
Audri: "Did you hear that?"
Arie: "Yep."
Audri: "Is that what I think it is?"
Arie: "Yep."
Audri: "Crap, she's wide awake!"
Arie: "Yeah."
(Those who don't really know my husband think this is his typical exchange. Lots of "yeahs" and "yeps". That's not really true for the record, but on this night it actually made for a little comic relief.)
We breathed a collective sigh.
So much for a good night's sleep. Arie had to be up early for work and I was on baby watch. The dreaded click had just indicated that I was not even close to being able to lie down. Dragging myself from the bed, I headed to Lisse's room to find her standing at her crib railing clicking like tomorrow had already come. She was already talking to me by the time I had her rail down and was lifting her from what should have been her sanctuary of slumber for at least another seven hours. I carried her to the living room where she was treated to a fresh one (a.k.a. diaper) and a cold one (a.k.a. bottle, not beer). Surprisingly, in spite of her initial bright-eyed, bushy-tailed appearance the clean diaper and soothing bottle zapped what was left of her energy. I would have bet you my next well-earned pedicure she was going to be up for a smooth hour at minimum. Imagine my relief when she was rubbing her eyes and back in bed in less than 20 minutes. Whew! Situation averted! It was time to finally hit the hay and as I was drifting into sleep I think I was actually praying that the dreaded click would not return.
Author's Note:
I understand now, ironically, that it was my mom who taught Lisse the "dreaded click." LOL Lisse also learned from Memere how to "whistle" for the dogs, only Lisse's whistle is more like a high-pitched, F sharp from the throat. LOL
Monday, August 2, 2010
You Always Know Where to Find Me
Up to this point my mastectomy experience has been physically on par with everything I've read on the subject. From personal stories, to medical literature, and the proverbial mastectomy for dummies kind of books, I have gleaned every drop of what to expect that my brain would possibly hold.
Today I put another check mark on my list of "yep, dealt with that one too." I wasn't engaged in anything particularly strenuous unless you call sitting in the drive-thru at Dairy Queen strenuous. That's when it suddenly hit me, a burning sensation blended with a sharp, stabbing pain in my nipple area, well at least the area my nipple used to call home. My first reaction was to grab my breast. If anyone had seen me in that moment they might have thought I was having a heart attack and called 911 on my behalf. Can't you see it now? Me explaining to some poor, unsuspecting EMT that my boob that is no longer a boob is in pain. They might opt to transport me to the psych ward instead.
It only lasted a couple seconds before I was back to normal. Funny, I don't feel normal right now. My chest is so tight that I feel as if I've been wearing an ill-fitting bra for more than six weeks. Anyone who might feel me would think I've stuffed said bra on each side with a fist-sized smooth rock. My husband says I have pecks and very masculine ones at that. Somehow that doesn't bring me as much comfort as if he were to tell me I look fit. We both laugh at his peck joke. The comic relief is nice.
The ghost pains lasted into the evening, then slipped into the night, along with accompanying thoughts of amputee war vets. (Wow, I guess I am an amputee, though someone missing a limb might take exception to the notion that I would liken my loss unto theirs. Isn't ghost pain, ghost pain? These amputee thoughts are too large for me to deal with right now and will have to wait.)
Thankfully, the pains were replaced with this lovely moment of quiet solitude, offset only by the whirring sound of the washing machine. Throughout this ordeal, I have been blessed with moments such as this. These are the times when God finds me, lifts me up, and begins healing me from the inside out. Suddenly the scars running across my chest feel as if they're fading. That's just how life is. It is in those quiet moments full of reflection, full of God, that we find the strength to withstand the pressure and pain that life is punctuated with. I thank God that He always knows where to find me.
Watermark sings a song titled "Where to Find Me." No other song more perfectly fits where I am at this moment. Here are the lyrics:
When the lie is deeper than I know
You capture me and You carry me home
You see these wounds and rescue me
You always heal things beautifully
And I close my eyes
And You can still my heart
And I call out Your name…
‘Cause You always know
You always know where to find me…
You always know
You always know where to find me…
And where could I wander that You wouldn’t be?
Whom have I but You who really knows me?
Proven to be the God that sees
From strength to strength You’ve lifted me…
And I could cry from the depths of the earth
I could stand on a mountaintop
And I can speak Your name out to the wind
And You go before me…
And You fall around me…
‘Cause You always know
You always know where to find me…
You always know You always know where to find me…
Today I put another check mark on my list of "yep, dealt with that one too." I wasn't engaged in anything particularly strenuous unless you call sitting in the drive-thru at Dairy Queen strenuous. That's when it suddenly hit me, a burning sensation blended with a sharp, stabbing pain in my nipple area, well at least the area my nipple used to call home. My first reaction was to grab my breast. If anyone had seen me in that moment they might have thought I was having a heart attack and called 911 on my behalf. Can't you see it now? Me explaining to some poor, unsuspecting EMT that my boob that is no longer a boob is in pain. They might opt to transport me to the psych ward instead.
It only lasted a couple seconds before I was back to normal. Funny, I don't feel normal right now. My chest is so tight that I feel as if I've been wearing an ill-fitting bra for more than six weeks. Anyone who might feel me would think I've stuffed said bra on each side with a fist-sized smooth rock. My husband says I have pecks and very masculine ones at that. Somehow that doesn't bring me as much comfort as if he were to tell me I look fit. We both laugh at his peck joke. The comic relief is nice.
The ghost pains lasted into the evening, then slipped into the night, along with accompanying thoughts of amputee war vets. (Wow, I guess I am an amputee, though someone missing a limb might take exception to the notion that I would liken my loss unto theirs. Isn't ghost pain, ghost pain? These amputee thoughts are too large for me to deal with right now and will have to wait.)
Thankfully, the pains were replaced with this lovely moment of quiet solitude, offset only by the whirring sound of the washing machine. Throughout this ordeal, I have been blessed with moments such as this. These are the times when God finds me, lifts me up, and begins healing me from the inside out. Suddenly the scars running across my chest feel as if they're fading. That's just how life is. It is in those quiet moments full of reflection, full of God, that we find the strength to withstand the pressure and pain that life is punctuated with. I thank God that He always knows where to find me.
Watermark sings a song titled "Where to Find Me." No other song more perfectly fits where I am at this moment. Here are the lyrics:
When the lie is deeper than I know
You capture me and You carry me home
You see these wounds and rescue me
You always heal things beautifully
And I close my eyes
And You can still my heart
And I call out Your name…
‘Cause You always know
You always know where to find me…
You always know
You always know where to find me…
And where could I wander that You wouldn’t be?
Whom have I but You who really knows me?
Proven to be the God that sees
From strength to strength You’ve lifted me…
And I could cry from the depths of the earth
I could stand on a mountaintop
And I can speak Your name out to the wind
And You go before me…
And You fall around me…
‘Cause You always know
You always know where to find me…
You always know You always know where to find me…
The First Step Alone is Scary
A friend of my mom's recently lost her husband of many years. In fact, they were lifelong sweethearts. My heart was aching for her as I sent her a pitiful excuse of a condolence message, hoping she would be able to read my heart in my words. What do you say in a moment like that? Most people struggle with the right words. It's so human to want to find a way to make things better, to take away the pain or at the very least dull the rawness. If there is one thing I've learned it's that I am not responsible for taking away another person's pain, nor is it possible. The only thing required of me, of any of us, is to open ourselves to being in that vulnerable place with that person we love - to walk with them as they experience the pain. Most of us have experienced the need for someone to reach out to us like that.
The date was March 5, 1997. I had been married only 10 weeks and 4 days. I was playing pool with friends at the club/dining facility on base. Over the sound of the music someone called my name. Who would've been calling the club asking for me? I got to the phone convinced it was probably my husband calling me. He was stationed in California and I was stationed in Maine and we were trying to work the system to get us stationed together.
The voice on the line was my division officer, summoning me to my quarters and making me incredibly nervous. Had I done something wrong? Was I in some sort of trouble? What a minute...he called me after duty hours. Hey, he told me to meet him at my quarters. It was shortly after 9 pm. As I walked to toward my car, trying to put two-and-two together, I realized it must be serious otherwise he would've waited for the next day. I broke into a run...
Whipping my car into the parking lot was a reflection of my state of mind. I felt a sense of dread. Something told me it was bad news and I began to pray before my foot ever hit the first step up to the third floor of my building. "Please don't let the Chaplain be with him. Please don't the Chaplain be with him!" I bolted up the stairs two-at-a-time. Rounding the landing and heading up the third flight I caught my first glimpse of the dress blue uniforms and patent leather shoes. My division officer had an intense, sad, and strained look on his face. Standing to his left was the Chaplain. Oh God!
The Lieutenant said, "Let's go to your room," and we began the long walk down the hallway. The world seemed to be going in slow motion all around me, even though my mind was going wild. I kept repeating, "Who is it? Who is it?" I was scared to death he would tell me my Mom had died. She was the first person on my mind. He refused to tell me anything until we reached my room. As the door closed behind the three of us, he said I might want to sit down. I vividly recall saying, "I don't want to sit down. Just tell me who it is." My breathing was heavy and I felt slightly as if I would pass-out from the anticipation before he said the words that would shatter me. I would like to recall his exact wording. Maybe it would reflect what you always hear in the movies, "I regret to inform you, etc." In reality, he had never done this before. Being the Casualty Assistance Calls Officer (CACO) is an extra duty for him and he only has a manual to go by. I'm certain he didn't follow the manual exactly. Could every loss be that cookie-cutter?
The truth is the rest of the next three days was a blur. LT was not informing me of the death of my mom or any other member of my immediate family. In hind sight I felt silly ever thinking that in the first place. Family deaths in the military don't warrant a late evening visit from your upper chain-of-command. Very few details were abundantly clear in those first few moments. First, my husband was missing from the ship. He was DUSTWUN (Duty Status Whereabouts Unknown). Second, the ship was out at sea and he had been accounted for prior to leaving their last port. Third, there was a massive search-and-rescue mission on that would involve the U.S. Navy, Coast Guard, and Mexican Navy, as well as civilian vessels. They had been combing the Pacific Ocean for approximately 12 hours already with no sign of Jason. I sent them away even as they protested that I needed someone with me. Then, I cried myself to sleep...alone in my room. How could I be in a room with anyone and share this moment? It was too raw. My soul was vacant, numb. Was this really happening? What if they didn't find him? I pushed that thought from my mind, convincing myself of what hope still lingered.
For a split-second when I awoke the next morning, I thought I was crying from having had a bad dream. I wonder if I cried all night in my sleep. I'll never know because I was alone, inside and out. The next visit from my LT was to inform me that the Navy had called off the search after 23 hours. I was livid! They couldn't even search for a full day? He would be designated as lost-at-sea. Two days after he went missing, he was declared dead and I was a widow at 24 years-old.
The story doesn't end there. It was only the beginning of a journey. There is so much life between that day and this that cannot be told at this moment. It's been more than 13 years since Jason died and today it's rushing back to me as I write to my mom's friend. I too lost my husband, though my loss was so different from hers. We were not lifelong sweethearts. Our story had hardly begun. I just needed to let her know I felt a glimmer of her pain and could walk with her if she needed a hand to hold either literally or figuratively.
As I closed my condolence letter to her, I included a note about my 1 year-old son, Karter. She has spent plenty quality time with my kids and is a doting grandmother figure for them. I told her that Karter started walking two days ago and he laughs every time he lets go and stands on his own. His face says to me, "I'm treading into new territory and I'm scared." With a long pause, he finally took that first step in spite of his uncertainty of the consequences. He has no idea what to expect of himself or the situation. He only knows it's awkward and he's fearful. I wonder if in this moment my mom's friend can relate to his fear of taking that first step.
Once he let's go, Karter realizes there are only two options, going down or going forward. He chooses to go forward. I chose the same and I know this lovely, faith-filled woman will do the same.
The date was March 5, 1997. I had been married only 10 weeks and 4 days. I was playing pool with friends at the club/dining facility on base. Over the sound of the music someone called my name. Who would've been calling the club asking for me? I got to the phone convinced it was probably my husband calling me. He was stationed in California and I was stationed in Maine and we were trying to work the system to get us stationed together.
The voice on the line was my division officer, summoning me to my quarters and making me incredibly nervous. Had I done something wrong? Was I in some sort of trouble? What a minute...he called me after duty hours. Hey, he told me to meet him at my quarters. It was shortly after 9 pm. As I walked to toward my car, trying to put two-and-two together, I realized it must be serious otherwise he would've waited for the next day. I broke into a run...
Whipping my car into the parking lot was a reflection of my state of mind. I felt a sense of dread. Something told me it was bad news and I began to pray before my foot ever hit the first step up to the third floor of my building. "Please don't let the Chaplain be with him. Please don't the Chaplain be with him!" I bolted up the stairs two-at-a-time. Rounding the landing and heading up the third flight I caught my first glimpse of the dress blue uniforms and patent leather shoes. My division officer had an intense, sad, and strained look on his face. Standing to his left was the Chaplain. Oh God!
The Lieutenant said, "Let's go to your room," and we began the long walk down the hallway. The world seemed to be going in slow motion all around me, even though my mind was going wild. I kept repeating, "Who is it? Who is it?" I was scared to death he would tell me my Mom had died. She was the first person on my mind. He refused to tell me anything until we reached my room. As the door closed behind the three of us, he said I might want to sit down. I vividly recall saying, "I don't want to sit down. Just tell me who it is." My breathing was heavy and I felt slightly as if I would pass-out from the anticipation before he said the words that would shatter me. I would like to recall his exact wording. Maybe it would reflect what you always hear in the movies, "I regret to inform you, etc." In reality, he had never done this before. Being the Casualty Assistance Calls Officer (CACO) is an extra duty for him and he only has a manual to go by. I'm certain he didn't follow the manual exactly. Could every loss be that cookie-cutter?
The truth is the rest of the next three days was a blur. LT was not informing me of the death of my mom or any other member of my immediate family. In hind sight I felt silly ever thinking that in the first place. Family deaths in the military don't warrant a late evening visit from your upper chain-of-command. Very few details were abundantly clear in those first few moments. First, my husband was missing from the ship. He was DUSTWUN (Duty Status Whereabouts Unknown). Second, the ship was out at sea and he had been accounted for prior to leaving their last port. Third, there was a massive search-and-rescue mission on that would involve the U.S. Navy, Coast Guard, and Mexican Navy, as well as civilian vessels. They had been combing the Pacific Ocean for approximately 12 hours already with no sign of Jason. I sent them away even as they protested that I needed someone with me. Then, I cried myself to sleep...alone in my room. How could I be in a room with anyone and share this moment? It was too raw. My soul was vacant, numb. Was this really happening? What if they didn't find him? I pushed that thought from my mind, convincing myself of what hope still lingered.
For a split-second when I awoke the next morning, I thought I was crying from having had a bad dream. I wonder if I cried all night in my sleep. I'll never know because I was alone, inside and out. The next visit from my LT was to inform me that the Navy had called off the search after 23 hours. I was livid! They couldn't even search for a full day? He would be designated as lost-at-sea. Two days after he went missing, he was declared dead and I was a widow at 24 years-old.
The story doesn't end there. It was only the beginning of a journey. There is so much life between that day and this that cannot be told at this moment. It's been more than 13 years since Jason died and today it's rushing back to me as I write to my mom's friend. I too lost my husband, though my loss was so different from hers. We were not lifelong sweethearts. Our story had hardly begun. I just needed to let her know I felt a glimmer of her pain and could walk with her if she needed a hand to hold either literally or figuratively.
As I closed my condolence letter to her, I included a note about my 1 year-old son, Karter. She has spent plenty quality time with my kids and is a doting grandmother figure for them. I told her that Karter started walking two days ago and he laughs every time he lets go and stands on his own. His face says to me, "I'm treading into new territory and I'm scared." With a long pause, he finally took that first step in spite of his uncertainty of the consequences. He has no idea what to expect of himself or the situation. He only knows it's awkward and he's fearful. I wonder if in this moment my mom's friend can relate to his fear of taking that first step.
Once he let's go, Karter realizes there are only two options, going down or going forward. He chooses to go forward. I chose the same and I know this lovely, faith-filled woman will do the same.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Dainty Wipes
Anyone who has ever fed a baby knows that the clean-up can be tricky. Those sweet, little boogers can turn their heads like owls! You grab a moist cloth and the chase for the sticky mouth is on. Our babies are no different.
We have learned with Lisse that she is especially an owlet, only it's like she's an owl-banshee hybrid. The moment we come close to wiping that goo off her face, she begins pivoting maneuvers. It's like she can do both a 360 degree rotation, as well as touch the back of her head to the middle of her shoulder blades! You can imagine that getting all the offending organic material off her face is nearly impossible under these circumstances. In steps a little creative parenting...
First, to throw her off I soften and sweeten my voice. Next, I gently move my hand toward her face and begin dabbing in a very lady-like fashion at the corners of her mouth, all the while almost cooing the words "dainty wipe, dainty wipe". She gets it. She's secure in the knowledge that I'm not going to drag some rough, wet cloth across her face, making her feel like I'm trying to reposition her lips, cheeks, and nose. Suddenly she becomes completely motionless and compliant allowing the cleaning to commence. Historically I only have her in that state for a few moments, so I know my movements must be altogether gentle, stealthy, and efficient. I think I may have it down to about three to five seconds now depending on what she ate for that meal.
This morning, the babies had their breakfast and were settled comfortably in their play area while Arie and I made our own morning meal. Amazingly we were able to make coffee, toast, and omelets with hardly a peep out of the kids. We couldn't believe how quiet the house was. We sat down at the kitchen table and Arie said our breakfast prayer. He asked God to bless the food give us a peaceful day. I think God was listening since we sat in pure, quiet tranquility and had our whole meal. No little munchkins running around our legs stretching their necks up like little birds waiting for a bite of our eggs, or trying to wriggle their way onto our laps. It was heavenly! I suddenly couldn't recall the last moment we had like that in our own home.
Since we were having toast and jam, Arie asked me if I would like my napkin wet or dry. Before I could say "dry", I inadvertently rested my arm in a sticky spot on the table - go figure. I said, "uh wet", as he glanced at me and chuckled at my raised, sticky arm.
At the end of breakfast, I reached for my wet paper towel to clean my face. In a burst of inspiration I dabbed at the corners of my mouth. I nearly felt like pumping my fist in the air in a show of solidarity with Lisse. The moist cloth and soft strokes around my mouth felt not only good, but refreshing - the sort of refreshing that comes with that hot, moist towel they give you when you're blessed enough to ride in first class. I wondered if that felt so nice, how then must it feel to have that same towel drug across your face at speeds of 20 mph and five pounds of pressure per square inch. So I tried it on myself. Wow, no wonder babies hate that! If I were Lisse I'd be a owlet banshee too!
Arie thought I was being a little silly until I tried both methods on him. First I tried the dainty wipe and he didn't flinch. When I switched to the "regular" method, he turned into an owl minus the banshee. (Losing the banshee does come with maturity, so that part didn't surprise me.) He was sold on the dainty wipe too! Without saying it, I think we both resolved to be more "dainty" when cleaning the babies faces.
If Lisse could talk she would probably say, "Thanks! It's about time you put yourself in my shoes." How many other ways should we be doing that as parents? I already taste all the food I feed them before I give them a bite, but I'm sure there are ways I'm not relating to them. I've gotta ponder that one a little more.
*Author's notes: While contemplating the word hybrid, I nearly said she "was hybred", thinking I was using the past tense. Then it occurred to me that perhaps that wasn't a word since I've never heard it used in that way. You may be interested to know that hybrid is not a verb and therefore doesn't have a past tense. So, only use it as a noun or adjective.
In the event that you may think I have a hefty grasp on the English language, let me just say I also had to look up the term for a baby owl. Who'd have thought owlet? In a moment of digression, let me also say that in Japanese, a baby dragonfly is called a yago, whereas the adult form is called a tonbo. When asked by the principal what Americans call a baby dragonfly in English, I paused before saying unassuredly, "baby dragonfly"? Yeah, that was an intelligent moment! For the record and in case you're interested the correct term is nymph. You really never know when you might be called on to discuss nymphs. You have to cut me some slack on this one. How many English speakers are fluent in baby animal names?
Lastly, when determining which word most closely described the sound Lisse makes, I recall hearing as a kid that someone was "screaming like a wild banshee Indian". If you know me, you know I'm sensitive to stereotypes and would never want to use derogatory language in reference to a race of people. However, all of this got me to thinking about what exactly a banshee is. Here is the dictionary's definition:
"–noun (in Irish folklore) a spirit in the form of a wailing woman who appears to or is heard by members of a family as a sign that one of them is about to die." Having said that and lest you think badly of me for referring to my sweet little girl's sound as banshee...if you've heard it, you understand. LOL
We have learned with Lisse that she is especially an owlet, only it's like she's an owl-banshee hybrid. The moment we come close to wiping that goo off her face, she begins pivoting maneuvers. It's like she can do both a 360 degree rotation, as well as touch the back of her head to the middle of her shoulder blades! You can imagine that getting all the offending organic material off her face is nearly impossible under these circumstances. In steps a little creative parenting...
First, to throw her off I soften and sweeten my voice. Next, I gently move my hand toward her face and begin dabbing in a very lady-like fashion at the corners of her mouth, all the while almost cooing the words "dainty wipe, dainty wipe". She gets it. She's secure in the knowledge that I'm not going to drag some rough, wet cloth across her face, making her feel like I'm trying to reposition her lips, cheeks, and nose. Suddenly she becomes completely motionless and compliant allowing the cleaning to commence. Historically I only have her in that state for a few moments, so I know my movements must be altogether gentle, stealthy, and efficient. I think I may have it down to about three to five seconds now depending on what she ate for that meal.
This morning, the babies had their breakfast and were settled comfortably in their play area while Arie and I made our own morning meal. Amazingly we were able to make coffee, toast, and omelets with hardly a peep out of the kids. We couldn't believe how quiet the house was. We sat down at the kitchen table and Arie said our breakfast prayer. He asked God to bless the food give us a peaceful day. I think God was listening since we sat in pure, quiet tranquility and had our whole meal. No little munchkins running around our legs stretching their necks up like little birds waiting for a bite of our eggs, or trying to wriggle their way onto our laps. It was heavenly! I suddenly couldn't recall the last moment we had like that in our own home.
Since we were having toast and jam, Arie asked me if I would like my napkin wet or dry. Before I could say "dry", I inadvertently rested my arm in a sticky spot on the table - go figure. I said, "uh wet", as he glanced at me and chuckled at my raised, sticky arm.
At the end of breakfast, I reached for my wet paper towel to clean my face. In a burst of inspiration I dabbed at the corners of my mouth. I nearly felt like pumping my fist in the air in a show of solidarity with Lisse. The moist cloth and soft strokes around my mouth felt not only good, but refreshing - the sort of refreshing that comes with that hot, moist towel they give you when you're blessed enough to ride in first class. I wondered if that felt so nice, how then must it feel to have that same towel drug across your face at speeds of 20 mph and five pounds of pressure per square inch. So I tried it on myself. Wow, no wonder babies hate that! If I were Lisse I'd be a owlet banshee too!
Arie thought I was being a little silly until I tried both methods on him. First I tried the dainty wipe and he didn't flinch. When I switched to the "regular" method, he turned into an owl minus the banshee. (Losing the banshee does come with maturity, so that part didn't surprise me.) He was sold on the dainty wipe too! Without saying it, I think we both resolved to be more "dainty" when cleaning the babies faces.
If Lisse could talk she would probably say, "Thanks! It's about time you put yourself in my shoes." How many other ways should we be doing that as parents? I already taste all the food I feed them before I give them a bite, but I'm sure there are ways I'm not relating to them. I've gotta ponder that one a little more.
*Author's notes: While contemplating the word hybrid, I nearly said she "was hybred", thinking I was using the past tense. Then it occurred to me that perhaps that wasn't a word since I've never heard it used in that way. You may be interested to know that hybrid is not a verb and therefore doesn't have a past tense. So, only use it as a noun or adjective.
In the event that you may think I have a hefty grasp on the English language, let me just say I also had to look up the term for a baby owl. Who'd have thought owlet? In a moment of digression, let me also say that in Japanese, a baby dragonfly is called a yago, whereas the adult form is called a tonbo. When asked by the principal what Americans call a baby dragonfly in English, I paused before saying unassuredly, "baby dragonfly"? Yeah, that was an intelligent moment! For the record and in case you're interested the correct term is nymph. You really never know when you might be called on to discuss nymphs. You have to cut me some slack on this one. How many English speakers are fluent in baby animal names?
Lastly, when determining which word most closely described the sound Lisse makes, I recall hearing as a kid that someone was "screaming like a wild banshee Indian". If you know me, you know I'm sensitive to stereotypes and would never want to use derogatory language in reference to a race of people. However, all of this got me to thinking about what exactly a banshee is. Here is the dictionary's definition:
"–noun (in Irish folklore) a spirit in the form of a wailing woman who appears to or is heard by members of a family as a sign that one of them is about to die." Having said that and lest you think badly of me for referring to my sweet little girl's sound as banshee...if you've heard it, you understand. LOL
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