Amphibious Admiration

I mowed my lawn earlier this week, entering the mild afternoon sunshine to clip at the overgrown grass in Chienne's fenced yard.

I was going downhill near one of the pine trees when I yanked the mower toward me in order to cover all the grass near the pointy needles waiting to gouge me when I saw the frog huddled closely to the ground amidst the roaring noise and swirling clippings of grass.

I gasped but had already started the forward motion and between the self-propulsion of the mower and downhill gravity outweighed my alarm over harming the creature and I mowed the patch of lawn in which he huddled.

Having closed my eyes against the potential carnage, I opened the right one slowly and sighed in relief when I didn't see pieces of mutilated frog.

Peering into the grass once again, I noted the concave shape of his back and nodded in admiration.

"I'm not sure I could have stayed so still and hoped for the best," I admitted to a colleague when I told the story.  "With all that noise and pressure, I'm afraid I would have attempted a panicked escape directly into the swirling blades."

As I consider it more though, I am quite frog-like of late.  Keeping the lowest of profiles.  Answering calls from Mom and speeding home for visits.  Absently noting the tulips in bloom and budding trees with the knowledge that they'll all die sooner or later.  Trying to remain unnoticed as I wait for the next bad thing to happen.

"It's fine," I told a different colleague when she asked about a silly project I'd been asked to lead.  "I'm fine."

"You say that a lot," she noted, looking at me with concern.  I shrugged, swiveling my chair back to regard the monotony that lives in my work laptop.  It keeps me busy.  Distracted.  For when I think of things, I'm often sad.

I miss Dad.  I want so much to talk with him.  Make sure he's OK.  I worry over Mom as she hates being alone.  I fret over disappointments and hurt feelings - whether of the Ones or colleagues or friends.

But it's fine.

I'm fine.

Just quietly huddled for a bit.

Love & Loss

I vaguely remember being infatuated.  That glimmer of wonder when he seems to like me in return.  Where - regardless of the action or distraction - where the very thought of him curves my lips into a silly smile.  When - even in the middle of a meeting stressful or boring - there's this fluttery hope and happiness.

My life of late has been the opposite of that.

I started to feel better.  We knew Mom's cyst was normal, though painful.  I had returned to work, busily filling in files and approving plans, when Aunt called about an hour after Mom's mammogram had been scheduled.  And I frowned as soon as I heard her voice.

"The cyst is fine," she said and went into detail while I waited with stomach clenched.  "But there's something abnormal in the other breast."  I remained silent while she said it was small and likely a calcification.  Eyes closed, I waited and willed myself to process this.  To say something hopeful and encouraging and loving and strong.

"Katie?" Mom finally spoke.  "Are you OK?"

"OK," I confirmed.

Aunt talked of biopsy dates and times and I assured them I'd be home for it.  So Chienne and I packed up and headed south a day later.  And at every turn - every other thought - there was cancer.  Tentacles reaching from the malignant core to entangle every breath and memory and hope.

Brother traded with Aunt in the waiting room - I released her hand for his while I waited for Mom to emerge from Radiology.  Brother and I took her for breakfast and chatted.  Then I took her home and snuggled her under multiple blankets on the couch, settling into Dad's recliner and keeping watch while she slept and I took conference calls.

I was driving north - Mom and Chienne in the backseat - the next day when I called Radiology for the third time to inquire about results.  Thinking of how I'd wept at Sunday School when I realized that God doesn't hate me - sometimes bad things just happen, I begged him - the breathless please, please, please, please, please kind - to let it be a calcification.

Voice shaking, I gripped the steering wheel and gave praise and thanks after the doctor confirmed it was benign.  No cancer.  Not this time.  And I listened to Mom make calls and giggle her relief while continuing the commute to my house.

So when yet another friend lost her job yesterday, I sat quietly while the remainder of the team expressed their outrage and shock.  Bad news seems to have lost some power over me, at least for the moment.  But I've grown somewhat skilled at listening to the too-long pauses after I ask how friends are.  The uncertainty.  The unfairness of it all.  The thought that all the work - the learning and practicing and extra hours and minor victories - being in vain.

But when this friend didn't answer her phone, I frowned.  And found myself in my Jeep, searching for her apartment to be sure she'd not hurt herself.

She hadn't - buzzing me in and answering the door with a sweatshirt unzipped over a black bra.

"I can't do it," she told me, gesturing at her front and beginning to sob.  I prioritized hugs over proper attire and we stood there - me in my coat still cold from the bitter winds and her warm from where she'd been curled up under covers and misery.  And I whispered that it would be OK.

I helped her zip her sweatshirt and joined her on the couch, looping my arm though hers and holding her hand while she cried.  And I looked at the spots on her cheeks - visible without make-up - and thought of how very delicate we all are.  How frail we must seem.  How a mere puff of bad luck can topple us.

"I don't know what to do," she finally said and I nodded.

"You grieve," I finally replied.  "And you find your balance again and decide what you want and try to get it.  I know you feel alone.  Rejected.  Afraid.  But you have people who love you and talent and opportunities that haven't been revealed just yet.  And I'm sorry - so very sorry - this happened.  It's not your fault and you don't deserve it and it's terrible and awful and wrong.  But you will battle back.  As soon as you've rested and cried a bit more."

I left after a little while when another friend appeared, driving back to work and settling in to type on that laptop between glances at places I've been and people I've loved.  And tonight, quite frankly, I ache - head, body, heart.  Because we are resilient as we are fragile.  And I continue to have hope, I suppose.

But it all seems terribly difficult of late.  And that silly giddiness seems to have faded into memories as I find myself waiting for the next disaster to strike.

Long time...

Hi.

I just did some laundry - retrieved my clothes from Europe from the dryer.  Placed a mound of pajamas in the washer.  And realized time has escaped me somehow of late.

I was sick when I got home from Europe.  This should be no great surprise since I cramped and limped and vomited and sniffled my way across the continent.  Mom patted my head, covered me with a soft blanket and went shopping.

"Here's $75 worth of cold products," she told me as she unpacked bags on my counter.  "I'm going home so I don't catch your disease."

I nodded and opened a new box of Kleenex while I waved at her departing car, settling into the comfort of home while I rested and healed.

I coughed when answering the phone two days later, Brother patiently waiting until I finished dealing with mucus.

"Mom found another lump," he said gently when I was quiet so I stayed that way, letting the knowledge absorb as I closed my eyes.

I went home, of course, staying for 11 days.  I was simply present for the first few days - we went out to eat, cleaned up the house, admired the remodeling Mom had done in the basement.

I asked for prayers on Sunday, sitting in the glow of sunlight in our sanctuary and wanting confirmation that the lump was merely a cyst.  I prayed and grasped for peace and comfort and received it.

We went for the appointment on Monday, asked her oncologist why he was so impatient and angry (he did calm himself under my severe frown and threatening words) and proceeded to the aspiration I'd hoped to avoid.

"Don't leave me," Mom asked as I stood at the head of the table, my hand in hers and foreheads together.  So I looked in her tear-filled eyes and promised I wouldn't.  We sighed with relief when it was over and I stood, watching the two punctures on her breast form a perfect heart of blood on the bandage.

So though she urged me to go home when she was back under control, I doubled my 5 day trip with nary a single complaint from work and Chienne and I settled in for a longer stay.

I called for results - cytology was clean so we cried again over the lack of cancer cells.  And the cultures failed to grow anything so she didn't have to continue taking anti-biotics that were making her so sick.  (I'd let her stop several days before - I somehow feel qualified to make medical decisions.  So I do.)

Yet the cyst refilled.  So we're still worrying about the little sucker.

"I didn't realize how hard you worked," Mom said one evening as she settled on the couch at 7PM.  I'd finally released my control on the living room, sitting in Dad's recliner with my iPhone earbuds and laptop as I'd joined meetings and made slides and sent documents and drafted emails.

We went to run errands on Saturday with plans to have me leave on Sunday.  We shopped for groceries.  Picked out flooring for her new basement.  Stopped for breakfast.  Then we went to renew her zoo membership.

"The tiger cubs are out," the attendant told us so we braved the bitter wind and wandered out to look at them, cooing over the cuteness.

"It doesn't seem like they have enough room to run around," I finally noted, feeling sad at having them penned in.  (This is not uncommon when I visit zoos.)

"No," Mom agreed.  "But you play the hand you're dealt."  I nodded my agreement and urged her along so we could see the zebras before declaring defeat to the cold and returning to the Equinox.

She cried before leaving for church as I packed the last of my things.  And we held on for a long time before separating again.

Work has been busy but I'm doing well.  I remain happy with this position.

Friend is going through some work stuff.  So send her happy-research thoughts if you have extras.

I feel a bit like I'm waiting for the next horrible thing to happen, but I'm not overwhelmed by it.  It's a gentle awareness in the background that allows for contentment in the foreground.

Malade

I opened my eyes, blinking twice as I tried to snuggle into my warm, borrowed bed and return to sleep.  I frowned when I could not, turning all my attention to my head and deciding that, yes, it did indeed ache. 

With a sigh, for my body has not served me particularly well on this European jaunt, I rose to acquire tablets, swallowing them with some Coke Zero I had leftover from my train journey.  I returned to bed for mere moments before hurrying to the bathroom to begin what ended up being about 120 minutes of illness. 

I have thrown up in places somewhat exotic, I decided.  Seoul, looking out over the Korean city as I dipped my head over the air conditioner to try to cool my fever-heated head.  Montreal, using the bathroom phone to beg for medication that would stop my misery.  And now Paris, perched in an adorable room with slanted ceilings and throwing up salmon tartare and gambas with risotto that I'd eaten to be polite the night before.  (French food is not my forte, I'm afraid.)

 The spasms would ease for blissful moments, giving me a chance to clean the bathroom and myself, to try in vain to swallow another tablet, before returning to misery until my eyes watered pitifully and sides ached mightily. 

I managed to alert my colleagues that I would miss the morning's meetings.  Finally was able to climb in the shower and wash.  Then tugged on the dress - forgiving and lightweight - that I'd planned to wear to the office and climbing back under fluffy covers to sleep fitfully once again. 

There is - for me - something visceral about travel.  Life reduced to the basic needs - to sleep and eat and breathe - while surrounded by someplace strange and wonderful.  That my body responds with sickness in some cases (5-10%, I'd estimate) should not surprise me.  Nor does it when my left calf cramps after carrying luggage a mile across Paris between train stations.  (Worth it.)  When I gulp (still) water with more appreciation than I'd have for the finest of wines.  When I'm dazzled with delight and subsequently felled by migraines and vomit. 

There is another constant - much as I love spending time here, sorting out accents and apologizing that I don't speak the local language - I'm always ready to return home. 

Lucertainly

I decided, clinging to the handle of the gondola with both hands as we ascended both smoothly and alarming little dips, that even my meager adventures may be overrated.  

"Fifteen minutes," my friend chirped as our boat docked and we set off on our walk to our up-mountain transport.  I followed dutifully in hiking boots I'd borrowed from her, stopping short only when facing one of the steepest hills I've ever seen.

"I thought we were finding this dangling glass box to avoid climbing the mountain," I offered, head cocked suspiciously at the climb ahead.   

"Katie," she scolded in her elegant accent, tipping her head toward the senior citizens moving up the sidewalk, some of them dragging luggage.  I recalled my embarrassed terror when hiking with Friend, seeing tiny children scampering down hills that had me clinging at trees.  

Huffing and puffing enough to blow a house down, we arrived at the station, 15 sharply-uphill minutes later.  We proceeded to climb in a box made mostly of glass that rapidly fogged as humans crammed into it. 

"Happy thoughts," I whispered to myself, remembering the morning.  On the ground.  Which was flat.  Surrounded by quaint buildings bearing international flags.  Under the covering of a wooden bridge while icicles dripped from its eaves.  The photo of me there - leaning around a nearby pillar - looked so brilliantly happy even as the snow fell softly around us.   The swans shared space with ducks, gliding smoothly through the inky water - clear and clean up close but ill-illuminated under the snow clouds that hovered above.

"We could walk up to the top," PrettyHair said when we climbed about a million stairs on our safe (thank God) arrival up the mountain.  

"Absolutely not," I replied, though I promise I was the epitome of a lovely guest other than in this story.  So we caught a crowded train that made its way up into the snow cloud.  We wiped condensation from the windows with our sleeves, admiring the snow clinging to the trees and making calculations of 2 meters into feet.  (The snow was deep.)  We watched the skiers laugh as they juggled their gear in the small space.  And after a couple of stops at adorable little structures we could barely see through the cloudy windows and falling snow, we arrived at the final stop near the summit.  We climbed on the path and looked at each other, peering for a walking trail.  (I find walking downhill more acceptable than up.)  I found myself drawn toward the safety of the train though, having almost fallen in the 10 steps I'd taken.  So we boarded again amidst giggles at our failure but decided that experiencing the top of a mountain as it was shrouded in a snow cloud was rather worthwhile.

It cleared as we descended - sharply but steadily.  And we caught glimpses of blue sky as we boarded another boat bound for PrettyHair's house.  

"I had the best time," I told her, beaming over our coffees and pastry as we moved along the lake once again.  And it really is stunning here - I highly recommend Lucern.  And the boat and mountains beyond. 

Non-neutral

There is something awakened within me upon seeing new places.  Even when miserably jetlagged and crampy, feeling grimy from the lengthy flight and tired from lugging my luggage from train to train to uphill sidewalk, there's a certain spark of... discovery? adventure? novelty? to encountering cities nestled upon lakes near the Swiss Alps. 

It leaves me - just for a moment - breathless.

I've come early to Europe to meet a friend who is hosting me at her lovely home overlooking the city.  I dutifully followed her from the airport, arriving to coo over the elegance of her living space before freshening up while she made a lunch of bread, cheese and fruit.  (Oh, the bread... And cheese... And fruit...)

We set off to explore the city - beaming at the sunshine when it sparkled and reaching for umbrellas during the light sleet.  I took photos - admiring architecture and floral arrangements and breathing in the scent of chocolate - in what is undeniably a charming locale.

Tomorrow, I climb a mountain.  (By train.  But still!)

Tiptoe

 "Aw," I cooed when I got to work on Monday.  I'd been off-campus on Friday so my birthday tulips had opened prettily and my balloons still floated happily above my desk.  "That's so sweet of you," I grinned at my colleagues when I went to give hugs.

The moral of my story - or one of them, perhaps - is that life works out.  It dips and twists and sometimes crashes and burns.  But it always manages to level out - bounce back - and leaves me stroking the petal of a tulip with the tip of my finger while considering its simple beauty.

"I'm glad you're on that team," my former partner said when I saw him on Monday, a departure from his initial dire warnings of killing my career.

"Me, too!" I cried, linking my arm with his and grinning when he squeezed me affectionately.  "I'm so happy."

"I don't care much about that," he teased and I sighed at him.  "But I do think we need someone smart and talented in that role.  It's good for the teams."

"Thanks," I offered.  "I'm glad you got our job," I continued sincerely.  "I wanted it - desperately, really - but it wasn't the right path for me.  And I think it may be the right path for you."

He shrugged and we both went quiet, thinking of the meeting we'd just left.

There was a project I'd championed for years - I think - no, I believe - that it's truly groundbreaking.  Elegant.  Meaningful.  A real weapon in the battle against disease.

And we're killing it.

"It's brilliant," I emphasized, leaning across the table in a tiny conference room and maintaining eye contact with the lead designer.  My heart broke when I noted the tears in his eyes but I continued to tell him what amazing work he'd done.

I looked at my former partner - the decision-maker in this hideous game - and his mouth twisted with momentary regret but he straightened in his chair and continued with discussions about resources and priorities and some activities that were high risk/high reward that we just couldn't support in the current climate.

I nodded because he's right.  We've reduced our force, asking talented employees to pack their belongings and leave.  Those are terrible decisions - ones that make my stomach ache - and I've tried to connect those people with links in my network and sag with regret when they must uproot their families to find work elsewhere.

I have not the strength to crush dreams.  I just don't.  I know it's best for business in some cases.  I understand the rationale and hurt for those men (for they're typically men in my world) who must decide and deliver those messages.  But it's not something I can do right now, even with the knowledge that the world eventually rights itself and balances.

Instead, I return to my support role - organize items and communicate strategy rather than participating in its formation.

And I smile at my tulips, silly as that sounds.