Curb Alert

One of my first purchases upon finding a house was an inexpensive lawnmower.  I shoved it across the grass that surrounded my house in post-doctoral city and then had the movers bring it to my current locale.

I grew weary of my hands numbing from the vibrations, however, and decided to replace the green mower with a self-propelled red one.  Since then, said green mower has remained safely housed in my shed.

My mom, always supportive of underdogs, likes to use it when she visits and last weekend was no exception.  Brother drug it from the shed, using a nifty duck and cover maneuver to avoid the wasps, filled it with gas and yanked on the starter until it roared to life, belching black smoke of the quality and quantity that a dragon would have certainly been impressed and envious.

"Perhaps we should not use it," I shouted from the deck, but was unheard over the roar and then coughing too hard from the smoke to repeat my suggestion.  So I shook my head in affectionate dismay and came inside to tell Dad that Mom was at it again.

"Motor fell off," Brother reported when he walked in from the garage.  Mom followed, looking crestfallen.  (I rose to hug her in sympathy - it sucks when things get old and fall apart.)

"It vibrated awfully hard," I said gently, still patting my mother and she nodded, agreeing that it was also hard to breathe in the dense fog of smoke.  I stifled a giggle but met Brother's eyes and had to laugh.  "Perhaps we could give it away," I suggested, not wanting to try to piece it together again only to face the same problem next time.

"Curb alert!" Brother proclaimed, sitting down and reaching for Dad's laptop, tapping away with his index fingers to log in to his account.  "What else do you have that you want to give away?"

"Her desk!" Mom decided and I nodded my assent.  Upon buying my new couch, furniture got shuffled and my old table became my new desk and my old desk sat on my front porch for a couple days.  (Between my failure at yard work and storing furniture outside, my neighbors are probably ready to elect me Princess of Subdivision.)

"Now we wait," Brother declared a bit later, having published his ad and moved the two treasures near the road.  Mom, Dad, the girls and I all nodded.

I was spraying around my house for bugs when I alerted my family to the vehicle stopped out front.

"I bet he takes the mower," Brother whispered and I nodded in agreement, hurrying inside to tell Dad that someone was here.

"I bet he takes the mower," Dad said and I grinned when I informed him that Brother had anticipated the same thing.  Mom had walked over to chat with him, waving when he left and confiding to us that she almost made him take the desk as well.

I was upstairs with the girls when I heard Brother bounding up the steps.  "Someone came for the desk!  He's tying it on top of a minivan!  With twine!  Come see!!"

The girls scampered down and Mom and I followed to peer out the window and wager on how far he could get before the monstrosity of a workspace fell from his roof and splintered into a million pieces.  Brother narrated, counting the pieces of twine and number of knots.  Dad ambled over to shake his head before returning to his spot on my new couch.  The girls giggled and I grinned as I smoothed their hair, all of us leaning to get a better look as the van drove away.

I hadn't really thought about it - one of many silly moments when we laughed - but I was reminded yesterday when I took an unwanted container of peanut brittle to work.  My folks forgot to take it home and I don't eat peanut brittle, so I stuck it in my bag and set it by the coffee machine when I went to get hot water for tea.

I needed more tea a bit later so I returned to the machine and gasped when I saw that the peanut brittle was nearly gone.  I beamed, glancing around to see if anyone new was coming for crumbs and laughed when I realized that I was a little disappointed I hadn't waited to see who'd taken some and if it seemed to brighten their mornings.

It seems that - for better or worse - I am utterly a product of my family.

Courses & Obstacles

My family visited this weekend - Mom, Dad, Brother, his girlfriend, Little One and Smallest One made the trip and settled in on Friday night, and departing again mere hours ago. 

It is one of those wrenching moments when I acknowledge this may be Dad's last time here in this house that he helped unpack and advised on decorating and sweated through landscaping. 

I recall losing my beloved grandmother in high school and reaching to touch her at the visitation.  I recoiled when I realized how very cold she was, knowing nothing but warmth where she was concerned.

Dad's hands and feet - whether from inactivity or water retention or something else - are cold to touch.  So I found myself sitting next to him and dedicating myself to rubbing warmth back in his fingers.  His abdomen is distended and he isn't feeling particularly well.  He wanders the house at night, seeking a comfortable position in this world and it's so overwhelmingly sad.  The grief, even now, eclipses what I've known before and I struggle with and against it, even in tormented dreams.

The Ones are stunningly spoiled, making any and all demands and allowing little time to meet them.  But whether it's going to buy toys or visiting a playground or going to the fair, they are a beautiful distraction - smart and charming and delightfully cuddly at times.  Little One shared my room on this visit and her presence comforted me - I'd wake and look around, sometimes touch her hand gently where it rested by her cheek, leaving me to try to relax into sleep again.

We rode a train and bought food at farms.  We rode the merry-go-round at the fair and played 18 holes of mini golf.  We went shopping and ate out and giggled over television and internet. 

Little One is at the point where she's interested in family lore, constantly requesting stories and listening avidly.  I remember that stage - begging for slideshows that made everyone groan but treasuring the laughter that echoed through the house as we relived memories, sharing them with those of us who weren't yet born during the live event.

Brother worked, quite frankly, like a dog while here.  His decision to come was a bit late but I was quite happy to have him.  Even if he hadn't mowed and weeded my lawn.  Rid my yard of 8 wasp nests.  Fixed my front door which blew open in a violent wind.  Moved furniture a few times.  Attempted to correct my constantly-running toilet (which I finally turned off and will call a plumber tomorrow).  The boy is nearly 30 - which makes me shake my head - but is a good guy, despite the near-constant drinking.  I wish I knew how to help him battle those mental demons, but I'm proud and fond nonetheless. 

And we talked about American Ninja Warrior.  Brother made videos at the playground of him jumping over a step ("Everyone can do that," Little One offered in response.) and moving across the monkey bars.  We giggled and huddled a bit closer together in a too-hot house that made only Dad comfortable. 

I snuggled with Mom as we cooked and cleaned and talked.  She's helping me make sense of this professional could-be-opportunity so I feel more prepared for whatever news arrives this week.  We clung before they climbed in the car to depart, unsure of the future and what challenges it brings, but blessed there on the driveway to have had this time.

I'll close with a hopeful 'and many more...'

Interview - Recruitment-Style

"How did we find you?" one man asked, smiling when I shrugged. 

"I'm honestly not sure," I replied, "But I'm very flattered by the interest.  I'm actually happy in my current role."

"But you took the call," he challenged easily and I opened my mouth to reply before closing it, unsure of what to say.  So I smiled sheepishly.

"I actually missed the call," I corrected him.  "But, yes - I did call back."

"It happens to all of us," he said, having switched companies himself.  "When the other side just looks too green to skip a second look."

I tell myself sometimes that I'm not unhappy.  When Sibling asked what that meant, I frowned and tried to explain. 

"Let's say there's a continuum of happiness," I decided.  "Where zero is utter misery and pain and ten is ecstasy.  Happy would be 7-10.  Unhappy would be 0-3.  So if I'm above 3 but below 7, I saw I'm 'not unhappy.'"

And though I'd not admit it in an interview (of course), my professional number has probably hovered around a 4.  I'm sick of so many policies and procedures.  I don't understand some people.  And while there are so many reasons to love what I do, I somehow just don't. 

"So you're too old to go back," Adam said during a recent discussion. 

"To research?" I asked.  "Am not," I pouted when he nodded but soon grinned at him.  "I don't want to return to the world of academics."

"So what do you want?" he asked.

"I don't know," I sighed after a long pause.  "I think I want more responsibility, but I actually just want more power.  I'd like more money, though that seems selfish since I do have enough.  I want to live near my family.  I want to have a dog.  I don't know."

"You want that job," he told me firmly and I nodded obediently, doing my best to get it during my trip to their headquarters.  I read old notes and textbooks.  I reviewed documents and practiced interview questions in the car.  And I took my prettiest dress and favorite jacket and shiniest flats. 

I stayed in a lovely hotel and took a nice walk after breakfast.  I drove my rented minivan (that was luxuriously convenient, honestly - I was ashamed of how much I liked it) to a designated parking lot and freshened my lip gloss before settling in for meetings. 

"Nervous?" one of them asked.

"I must be getting old," I replied.  "Because I'm really not."  And it was easy to pause before answering questions.  To answer honestly and articulately.  To be proud of my responses as I highlighted projects and accomplishments that reminded me that I should feel better than "4" about my career.

"Any concerns about my background?  Is there anything I can address while I'm here?"

"Not from me," the VP replied and returned my smile.  "It's a team decision, honestly, but I know all I need."

And though I'd rather love the job I have, I may take this new opportunity if offered.  There is something about a do-over that I find appealing.  Scary-as-hell, but appealing nonetheless. 

So my head aches and stomach cramps and I sleep more than any human should.  But my dad is feeling better (!!!!!!) and they're thinking of coming to visit next week.  And I have a number of projects which demand my attention and make me feel productive.  We'll see what comes next. 

FFS

I was reading a blog that Friend recommended, laughing over texts between a guy and his dog, when I came across an abbreviation I didn't know.

"For Fuck's Sake," Friend offered helpfully and I nodded at her reply to my inquiry.

And I uttered those letters with varying degrees of feeling - from friendly exasperation to vicious rage.

1. I awakened at 2AM, rolling over and calculating how much more time I could snuggle under covers.  It wasn't long.
2. When attempting to open my Advil en route to the airport, I was unable to outsmart the child-proof cap and injured myself in the attempt.  I also failed, meaning my head and hand hurt. 
3. I got lost on the way to the airport.  My home airport.  That I use frequently.  But who closes an interstate?!
4. Upon finding the airport, I missed the turn for parking.  Meaning I circled again as the sun peeked above the horizon and the hour neared 4:15.
5. As I lost my way, I ended up joining the security line late.  Behind ~40 middle school travelers embarking upon some sort of field trip.  
6. I selected the wrong line for carry-on screening, watching men who had been behind me for the ID check speed through while I waited behind slowpokes.  (Said slowpokes were not part of the field trip group - they operated like a well-oiled, matching-shirted machine!)
7. Upon arriving at the gate, my newly-purchased bottle of water was already too slippery to hold.  FFS, humidity!
8. The colleague I was accompanying on the trip (as he was the important one for this particular case) checked in at the airport and therefore didn't have a seat on our over-sold flight.
9. After getting all excited about not having to go at all, we had enough volunteers linger - hoping for more than a $400 voucher - and my colleague got a seat.
10. "We have to go," I sighed, shoulders slumping as I followed him down the jet bridge.  "FFS," I offered mildly.
11. Once boarded, we waited for fuel.  Did we not realize we'd need fuel beforehand?
12. Once landed, we waited for someone to drive the jet bridge to us.  Did they not realize we were arriving on schedule?  Hello?  LGA?
13. While I made it past security at our destination without having to jump through hoops, my colleague was not as smooth.  Which meant I had to go back to fetch him and jump through even more hoops. 
14. We caught a cab easily, my last terrifying visit to the city having taught me where to hail one.  And I did - I hailed one!  But I hurt my hand trying to open the door.
15. Feeling in need of a little perk, I texted a friend, expecting him to make me laugh.  He failed to make me laugh, but succeeded in hurting my feelings.  So I'm officially mad at and ignoring him.  He doesn't know this, but I do.
16. A little offended and a lot impatient, we arrived at JFK and skirted a huge line of humanity to check in.  "They can't be waiting to clear security," I breathed, watching the mass of people snake around the check-in counters and out the door into the beautiful afternoon.  
17. An hour later, I was convinced that it would ease at some point.  That we'd stop this slow shuffle forward and TSA would add more people or Delta would get organized in managing the lines and we'd all zip through!  
18. An hour after that, I was near tears.  I hated the person managing the lines - how dare she talk to colleagues?!  Or go get water?!  Was she not aware of my misery?  Of how awful the impatience and sense of fairness was to me?  I wished bad things for her, I decided, glaring steadily.
19. We were finally pulled out of line when our flight was called, joining the single line of people going through a single scanner!  One at a time!  FFS, JFK! Or TSA!  Or President Obama!  Or whoever did this to me!
20. We finally arrived back home.  Only to wait 10 minutes (which felt like an eternity, honestly) for the jet bridge to reach the plane.  How hard is this, people?

FGS Items

- I wore a blue chiffon top over a slightly darker camisole and made so many friends!  I had men chatting with me all day, which was lovely.  The flight attendant on my first flight, the guy in front of me in line at JFK (with the delicious accent and quirky glasses), my seat mate on the flight back home.  Thank you, friendly men.

- I talked to my folks and things are OK at home.  Dad doesn't feel well and he's trying to like his new recliner but they keep taking it back to get new ones. (I didn't fully understand - I was tired and fighting traffic.)

- Much as I feel tempted to explore the city while actually outside a cab or when I'm not arriving and departing in the same day, I'm so pleased to be home.   I love being home.

- I love Delta cookies.  

- My hair, curled before dawn, stayed all pretty all day.  

Plan of Attack

I was wandering down the court on which I reside this morning, indulging in wide yawns as I followed Chienne through the coolish early morning air.

"Oh, no," I said mildly when a yapping-dustmop-dog sprinted toward us when we passed one of the prettier lawns in the neighborhood.  I knew said yapping-dustmop-dog was restrained and rather enjoyed its jerk back when he reached the end of his cord.

I rarely meet dogs I don't like, but this one - and his smaller friend - are awful.  They're outright mean to my friendly Chienne and stupid-looking to boot.  But when the smaller friend joined the melee and was nipping at my hound while growling ferociously, I joined the battle and used my feet, arms and voice to try to defend my girl.

She fought reasonably effectively, short hair standing on end and teeth bared in the scariest growl I've heard her use.  Loose-yapping-dustmop-dog started to yipe rather than yap, nearly screaming in some mixture of rage and fear as its person joined me in trying to separate our canines.

"Wow," I said when it was over, leaning down to soothe Chienne while offering a number of glares at the trio standing in the neatly-manicured yard.  I don't remember what the woman said or how I replied - I do recall apologizing to Chienne as she panted, otherwise still as she attempted to keep track of the yapping-dustmop-dogs.

In other battles, I have arranged travel for my first interview in years.  I need to read up on some grad school topics I've not really used since 2002.  I should refresh my memory of interviewing tips - did I not write a post or two?

I've learned since my last interview experience that it's fine to spend some money.  I picked the flights that were the most convenient for my schedule, though they were massively costly.  I selected the top TripAdvisor hotel for the city - it wasn't overly expensive but it's nicer than the chain they suggested that's just near the office.  I'll enjoy a leisurely breakfast and perhaps take some photos if there's sufficient prettiness.  Then I'll go speak with some people about how wonderful I am.

I'm afraid, honestly.  Not of the interview, though I'm sure I'll be nervous.  But over what this decision could mean for my future.  Of how I want to balance family and career.  I'm not in a mental place where I feel capable of deciding this presently.  So I worry.

I've found that disruptions in my schedule can contribute to mental instability.  As I'm already feeling rather fragile, I looked at my plans - east coast x 2, Japan, Europe - all in the next 4 weeks, I freaked out a bit.

So I emailed Adam and suggested using some technology to allow me to participate without crossing the Pacific.  And while I could tell he wasn't particularly happy with my request, he agreed to my plan and is instead sending Sibling to Japan.

Sibling is thrilled.  I'm relieved.  So I'm working to disregard Adam's disappointment in me and feel good that I found a workable solution.  And I'll buy a guidebook for Amsterdam so that I know what to see and can look forward to Europe - a continent I'm much more confident visiting solo.

I find I struggle to think past that European trip in early-mid July.  I can plan days before it nearly down to the minute, but after that?  Nothing.

I had a dream last night that I was taking my family on vacation, but we were running miserably late.  As I was frantically trying to check us in, paging through stacks of documents, a man came and said it was now or never.

"But I'm not quite ready," I protested.  "5 minutes - I just need five minutes to settle and think!"  But he refused and climbed some steps to shut the doors while my parents and brother looked on with disappointment.  I choked on the feeling of failure, barely able to breathe, and kept attempting to find an alternate plan.

"I don't want to do this," I wept as I called Friend last week.  And she soothed and reasoned until I calmed.  But the distractions - the exquisite plans - help to distract from the encompassing sadness of losing a parent.  I just find I'm unable to have them last forever.

Live (lihood)

"I'm being courted," I told Adam yesterday.  "I rather like it."

He laughed at me, as he tends to do, and said he remembered his first recruitment call.  "It's flattering," he agreed.  "But send me the job description - I'll have a look for you."

I wanted him to beg me to stay.  To convince me that I'd soon be promoted and revered and cherished in my current company.  After all, one of the benefits of this role was the location - I could live here forever and be quite content.  I love my house.  My commute.  My office.  Colleagues.  Airport.

This is home.

I live here - sleep and dream, laugh and cry, work and walk.

It is not without problems.  My professional trajectory spiraled downward pretty rapidly - which apparently isn't the best before a potential reorganization.  And as I picture names being pasted on chess pieces that are casually strewn across a board with lofty yet unknown goals, I'll admit to look at this new opportunity with some longing.

I like to start over.  Just wipe everything clean - throw out the clutter.  And work like crazy to get past the learning curve, find people and places to love.  Explore and settle and find my balance again.

Perhaps I'd meet someone there though.  Be happier for longer and depressed less frequently.

"You'd be crazy not to jump at it," Adam said when we met again today and frowned when my face fell.

"OK," I nodded, knowing he's right.  It's an amazing job - several steps up from where I am now and you don't often get the opportunity to skip steps when these jobs are in such high demand.

"More money," Adam said, leaning forward to convince me.  "More power.  Great company with excellent benefits.  Your family situation..." He paused, attempting to be sympathetic yet struggling with his innate compulsion for honest opinion.  "It's going to change, Katie.  So you can't base everything on what's going on at home."

No, I wanted to say.  My dad could be OK.  The tumors are shrinking!  The chemo is working!  He is not leaving me yet.  He may not have to leave soon.

But Adam, as usual, is likely correct.  When looking at the reality of the situation, I likely shouldn't - especially from a mentor's perspective - discard an opportunity because of personal circumstances.

"You're free to go!" he continued.  "No children, single..ish?" I laughed at his raised eyebrow as I've texted him while waiting for dates at certain points.

"Single," I confirmed, shaking my head at him.

"You're young and smart.  Have too much money and are gaining maturity quickly.  You could do this - tell them you'll relocate and beg them for the job."

"I told them about my parents," I noted and watched him wince.  "I don't even know if I want it!" I cried and he cringed even more.  "Oh, shut up - I'm doing fine without you," I teased and he patted my head before leaving my office.

So I'm trying to get back to that moment - where I liked being courted.  Because now it's scary and full of pressure - one of those life decisions that represents a turning point.  Do I stay here and settle happily into middle management?

Or do I head east - to a different lakeside location - and spring upward, unsure of what happens if I fall?

"I just want everything to be the same as it was," I said softly.  With my group and my family and my life, boring as it once was.  And as everything shifts in search of a new normal, I feel sad.  Just gently sad.

And wait for the next travel date so I can embrace the changes rather than waiting here - where everything is perfectly comfortable and safe - and wait for it to all fall to pieces.

Gracious Goodness

"Don't Socra-tease me," I noted when a colleague peered at the color I'd selected for my toes.  And we chatted about our lives and work and relaxed into the massage chairs as tiny women scraped at our soles and filed our nails and wrapped our feet in bags filled with paraffin.

Pleased that it was Friday afternoon and lulled into a dazed state by the rubbing of my legs and ankles and massaging motion of the chair, I hesitantly agreed to a manicure even though I always ruin them.

"I've rubbed off polish before leaving the salon," I warned.  So they shellacked me.  French tips.  And I love them.  It makes me happy every time I glance at my hands.  And I've lately needed a bit of a perk nearly constantly.

****

2011 was not a great year professionally.  2012 appears to be better.

I'm nearing the end of my 'plan to avoid being fired' with near-perfect results.  I say near-perfect because I got a 92% on my oral exam for a new topic.

"Let's go," I said to Adam after he commented on the tension in the room after I'd arrived and closed the door behind me.  "I'm nervous.  But I'm ready.  So let's go," I repeated, staring at him with narrowed eyes, leaning forward in a battle-ready posture.

"Good," he declared after we'd walked through a haphazard set of questions.  "I'll never again say you don't know new topic."

And the pride I felt - the relief and happiness and justification in all the cramming I'd done (I seriously had notes and flashcards and highlighted texts) - was outrageously out of proportion to the actual event.

****

Friend came to visit again!  She brought pralines from ATL!  We looked at flowers and shopped and talked and cried and laughed and ate.

The underlying tension is that something is (well, could be) wrong with her abdomen.  

And that's all I'll say about a potential illness because I refuse.  It's not OK - she's not yet 40.  So, no.  No gallstones.  No pancreatic cancer.  No.  

I love her bunches though - she's just such an easy presence.  Wise.  Kind.  Wonderful.  So I'm ever so grateful that she's taken time to come see me.  Especially on a weekend where her paper had been accepted and I'd just passed my new-topic test!

(She also has a birthday coming up.  Which amuses me only because she continued to repeat "40 is not that old," to the commentators as I made her watch American Ninja Warrior with me.)

****

After kicking some tail at work - I'm really doing shockingly well after 18 months of wild inability to be more than partially effective - I took some time to come home.  I dreaded this visit as it would reveal the initial efficacy of Dad's chemotherapy.

"I don't have an alternate plan," I told a colleague worriedly.  "I don't know what we're going to do."

"It'll be OK," he soothed.  "You don't need another plan."

And he was blessedly correct.  The liver lesions as well as the pancreatic mass are shrinking.  The CT says we're doing well.  The blood counts indicate we can continue with treatment.  We seem to be buying some time.

The price of that time is suffering.  So we asked about new medications for Dad's persistent nausea.  Talked about how he feels so poorly that he does little but sleep and sit in his chair.  

And the CT revealed pulmonary emboli.  

"Emboli?" I asked when the nurse practitioner told us.  "How many are there?"  And I nodded, gripping Brother's hand when she said there were several in both lungs. 

But the cancer center worked some magic with their insurance company and acquired the blood thinning injections so Dad could do them himself.  And while he's tentative about jabbing a needle in his belly, he's able to do it.  (I can't even watch.) 

I keep praying he feels better.  It breaks my heart a little more each time he sighs and says "I think this is how I feel from now on - just crappy."

****

Mom's follow-up was completely positive.  We walked hand-in-hand back to radiation oncology and she beamed at the team who'd treated her twice daily for 5 days and indicated she was just fine.

"Has she joined a support group or anything?" a colleague asked me and I blinked in surprise.  

"No," I replied.  "She's better.  We're done.  No more of that."

But I decided to ask in the event that she might find it useful.  Prepared to be encouraging, I still nodded when she looked at me in surprised and indicated that she was better.  We were done.  No more of that.  

Because I am my mother's daughter.

****

I sped up the back roads that I'd taken years ago to get to high school.  I entered the building via a new entrance and breathed in the familiar smells before heading to the auditorium to watch the Ones at their annual dance recital.

I went alone - Dad was asleep, having been feeling particularly bad.  Mom was weeping - wanting to go with me but feeling too worried to leave Dad alone.  But I sat and watched, taking video of Little One as she grows into such an astounding girl.  I went to find her once she'd performed, rejoicing at her wide grin of welcome before she jumped up and tapped across the corridor to embrace me.  

I waited with the girls and their mother until it was Smallest's turn.  And I watched another kangaroo song and took more video and smiled proudly because she's just such a cutie.  

Then I brought them home with me so they could spend time with Grandma and Grandpa until it was time for Brother to fetch them.  When he didn't end up coming, I sighed and reminded myself that I'm far from perfect as well.  Mom loves having them around and they love being here so I won't complain.  It's lovely.  They're wonderful.  

Though even I tire of hearing my voice remind, "Gentle with Grandpa."

****

Tomorrow we return home without immediate plans to return to my parents.  I'm sure we'll visit soon, but it may be a week or three.  

Sir Sprout will make his return to his northerly stomping grounds, pending tomorrow's capture and imprisonment in his moving nemesis.  Chienne is growing better with traveling - she still hates it but is more resigned to trying to sleep through the trip as best she can.  

I'm eager to return to my bed and pillows and blankets.  My basement and first floor and bedrooms upstairs.  Multiple bathrooms and sidewalks and delivery options for dinners.  I miss it. 

(We're home, actually, having drafted but not published this post pre-trip.  Sprout and Chienne have explored their home and, having found it remained suitable, have eaten and rested and only offered me reproachful glares infrequently.)

****

And though I've no particular desire to leave it - I'm fond of the location and my company - the interview process with the competitive company is going along very easily and well.  I've been utterly sincere as I don't need the job.  And everyone seems utterly charmed so far.  (Which is a trick - I'm very much a love/hate sort once you get to know me.)

"Make sure you'd actually go there before you use it for leverage with your current people," Friend advised.  And I nodded because she's right - there's a chance they could say, "Great!  Good luck with that!"  So I've not said a word yet, taking calls when I'm home with my parents.  And hoping that the right answer remains obvious and that learning more and making new contacts is a bit more goodness. 

And aren't my flower pictures pretty?!  If you're lucky enough to know Friend and her Flickr account, hers are even better.  

Stepwise

It is 16 steps to my Jeep from the front door - I've parked in front of the attached garage at the end of my parents' blacktop driveway because - as the designated driver - I like to be close to the front door.

We drive for about 15 minutes to arrive at the hospital entrance, exiting the expressway to turn right, then right again, then right once more before pulling into the circular driveway at the entrance.  I greet one of the four valets and tuck my claim ticket in the pocket that holds both my phone and Mom's on the outside of the mini hipster bag I wear across my body. 

We take 3 steps to enter the building, smile at the security and information workers, then the red-vested volunteers, and take 38 steps to the radiation oncology doors just before the elevators.  Receptionist smiles at us when we open the door and sometimes we sit for a few moments in the waiting room off to the left.

Other times, we're waved back into the department, making another 18 steps to the changing room where Mom removes her shirt and bra and dons the hospital gown with the opening in the front - like a robe.  I hold the robe for her, helping her ease her arms in and smoothing it over her shoulders. 

It's a mere 7 steps to the inner waiting room where we sit, side by side, and hold hands until Radiology Technologist comes to fetch us, his bearded face eased into a gentle smile as we say hello. 

We walk, still side by side, the 20 steps to the CT scanner and I hold her arm as she sits on the table.  Used to the process, I help her remove the robe from her left arm and fold down the netting that surrounds her torso, holding the gauze in place.  RT puts on gloves to remove the dressing after placing 2 warm blankets at the end of the table.  I place one of her body, making sure to cover her feet, even if they're wearing shoes.  Then I take the 4 steps around the table to hold her right hand as RT arranges her, positioning so that the green lasers match their crosshairs to the markers on her skin. 

Once done, I smooth the other blanket over arms she places over her head.  I tuck the ends, as RT showed me, around her head and over her chest so that only her face peeks out into the frigid room.  And I soothe her, sometimes praying, others chatting, as her lower lip quivers from a mixture of low temperature and high anxiety.

Doctor and Physicist enter, peering at the catheter that exits her breast before nodding at RT.  I take 8 steps to leave the room, closing the door gently behind me only after I deposit a kiss on Mom's forehead and remind her that (1) God's with her, (2) I'm filled with love and pride for her and (3) I'm just outside while the CT is running.

I repeat those 8 steps in the reverse direction just a few minutes later, reaching to hold her hand and offering a glance of gentle impatience to RT if he hasn't removed the table from the machine and allowed her to drop her arms.  Her arthritis is bothering her without her normal medications over the last 2 weeks.  After Doctor and Physicist examine and nod over the CT display, I bundle her back in her robe and we waddle 14 more steps, like ducks in a row - RT with her fixation device, Mom holding her robe closed and me with a sheet and my bag across my body.

After unlocking two doors, we enter the HDR (High Dose Radiation) room, a smaller but warmer space where the cot awaits us.  RT places her fixation pad and I smooth the sheet over the table before helping her adjust her robe again.  He goes to fetch more warm blankets while I turn on the television in the corner - it's always tuned to the same hospital station.  The one that shows nature scenes and plays soothing music.  Mom likes that one.

She settles on the cot and I make sure she's covered and cozy and we sit together while waiting for Dosimetrist.  She bustles in and plays with the radiation device - removing the spacers in the 7 tubes and connecting long cables to deliver the radioactive seed for the carefully-prescribed times.  After the cables are all attached, I look at Mom - and she at me - and we exchange sad little smiles because it's time for me to leave. 

I take two steps toward her and offer a kiss.  "I'll pray out there," I always say, "and you pray in here."  She nods and I take a few steps I don't count because I'm moving backward, keeping my eye on her and touching Dosimetrist to remind her to take good care of my mom while I'm forbidden from being in the room.  Because I love her and she's special and she gets nervous - we both do - when I'm not there to be overprotective.

I move back to the inner waiting room to watch television fretfully.  I know she's fine - she's been doing so well - but the waiting remains difficult for me.  While I'm gone, she says they check the connections at least twice more before they all leave the room, the heavily shielded doors automatically clanging closed behind them.

"It's a little like a death chamber," Mom said after the first treatment.  "Getting carefully set up and everyone checking you and then leaving while the doors close and leave you alone with God."  I'd worry (well, I'd worry more) but when having tea with her Bible Study friend, she said it's the time she's closest to Christ - focused and reliant and quiet with only Him. 

The treatment is short - less than 8 minutes - and then they unhook her and dress the radiation site where the device protrudes.  Then they return her to me in the waiting room and we grin at each other as we move back to the dressing room to change, then back to the valet to wait on the bench, then back home to wait for the next treatment - whether it's that afternoon or the next morning.

She's done 6 treatments in 3 days thus far.  We do two more tomorrow and her final pair on Monday.

Dad had his 7th chemotherapy treatment today and gets a week off next week.  He's not been feeling well, but I hope and pray that it's doing some good.  That this medicine is killing cancer even as it's making him mildly miserable.

He's down the hall in bed.  Mom snuffles quietly on the couch across the living room.  I'll soon go to bed early myself as we're due to take those same steps in the same order just before 7AM tomorrow.   

A Feline Missive

To Whom It May Concern:

I have successfully migrated to what appears to be my new headquarters.  I am pleased to report that there are plants and chirping creatures galore, yet I've thus far not managed to escape the interior environs.  I nearly managed to slide the lighter door away from the wall recently, but Elder Paternal arose from his chair, called me an uncomplimentary name and shooed me away.  Retreat is the better part of valor, I always say, especially when confronted with Elder Paternal.  He's quite big.

I spend much of my time underground, in the cool darkness of my basement lair.  I have created multiple napping locations, better to confuse the ever-present spies, and devised multiple locations where I can lurk behind boxes or under blankets to avoid detection.  I continue to worry that Maternal will attempt another capture and place me in my Moving Nemesis.  And I so despise car rides.  I will continue to thwart her, I think.

Elder Maternal continues to care for me so I'll spare her a bit of affection and allow her to stroke my stripey coat on occasion.  There are times my food dish - an inelegant bit of plastic that says something ridiculous like "I [heart] my cat" - goes empty at times but I can typically lure a human down the steps to refill it with my favorite of kibbles.  Elder Maternal bought a different litter - it has not that sharp detergent scent and does not seem to catch on my paws.  I enjoy it all the more when Maternal curses over its lack of clumping ability.  She amuses me so I spare her some affection, ill-advised as that may be, as well.

I have endeavored to spend time with the Elders as they are acceptably quiet on most occasions.  They have learned to let their hands dangle harmlessly and I rub against them should the mood strike me.  I believe them to be suitably grateful as they often remark on my beauty.  The problematic component comes by way of the Whirling Nemesis and VeryLoudBox Nemesis.  The former perches on the ceiling and persists on moving in one direction, four blades stupidly following the first to circulate the air.  It ruffles my stripey coat and despite my glares and hisses of warning, it continues to form its damnable circles.  And so I continue to watch (and occasionally retreat). 

Whirling Nemesis would be bearable if VeryLoudBox Nemesis was not proximal.  But between VeryLoudBox and the roaring of cars or shouting of people and the constant whirling, my nerves can not bear the danger and I must keep careful watch from the kitchen. 

I have attempted to send messages via Maternal to the pride I once commanded in my former headquarters.  I corner her in private and can only do so when she's resting but she often shushes my monologues, muttering something about trying to sleep.  After many attempts and the indignity of being scolded, I reach out to you in hopes that you will tell all who listen that I will return if I'm able (though not if it requires the Moving Nemesis).  And, if not, I am well here and will seek to establish a suitable kingdom.

Mostly Respectfully,
Sir Sprout, the Stripey

Certainly

"Will you hold my hand?" she asked, lying on the CT table, completely covered with warm blankets so that only her face was exposed.  I burrowed beneath the blankets covering her arms and found her hand, curling my fingers around hers and letting her squeeze. 

"I don't think this will hurt," I offered soothingly, but frowned protectively at the men who were marking and measuring and making notes around her left breast.  She squinted a few times and I'd remind the personnel to be gentle, hoping they didn't have me removed from the room. 

We talked about zoos in an attempt at distraction, topical because Brother planned to take the girls to visit the animals today.  There's a baby giraffe.  The seal died.  And that turtle I remember from my youth has a spot in the African exhibit.

"I think elephants get lonely," I said absently, keeping an eye on the trio working on the other side of Mom.  "I heard of one that died and her mate was just miserable."

"Don't all animals get lonely if they lose someone?" she asked and I blinked down at her, this woman who's been married to my father for 43 of her 63 years.  And was suddenly staggered at the thought of her losing her lifetime mate. 

"Yeah," I replied quietly, trying for a soothing tone.  "I suppose they do."  After smoothing hair from her forehead, I leaned to place a kiss and stayed to nuzzle. 

***

"Will you wash my hair?" she requested, frowning as she sifted her fingers through her short, colored locks.  Dad, who looks remarkably like Santa with his white beard and fringe of hair around his bald head, doesn't want Mom to go grey.  So she colors hers to a mix of browns and blondes.

I found myself dumping water over it, using one of those Tupperware pitchers with the little red tick marks to note volume when she couldn't lean far enough into the sink.  I breathed in watermelon-scented shampoo she uses with the girls and scrubbed so I could smile at the piles of bubbles before rinsing them away. 

"Better?" I asked, once we were finished and she'd piled the towel atop her head. 

"Much," she replied and reached to embrace me.  I let myself cling for a moment, smoothing her hair with stripey highlights and watermelon fragrance. 

***

So whether it's fetching more water with piles of ice cubes or helping with showers or shaving her legs, I treasure this time with her.  I realize it is fleeting - that I'm losing them both - but we laugh at rerunning sitcoms and frown over prices paid for abandoned storage lockers.  We wait for stars who dance and take pills and find meals at the proper times.  And, between meetings I take on the back patio, with birds singing and the trees rustling in the background, I look out into the day - whether sunny or gloomy - and am profoundly grateful I'm able to be here.  Completing random, yet important, tasks.

Frustrations

On my daily trip to the market prefixed with Wal, I picked up various prescriptions.  Then over the counter medicines.  Then tiny cupcakes and toppings for an ice cream party we're holding tomorrow.

"Will you come to my party at school?" Smallest One asked each of us when she called yesterday. 

"We can't, sweetheart," we all replied gently.  "Grandma has to go to the doctor and Grandpa isn't feeling so well after his treatment."

Yet in another shift that I suppose I could expect, all was well today.  Dad ate his ice cream bar and deemed it excellent after his anti-nausea medicine kicked in. 

Mom slept for much of the day after her early procedure and I distracted myself from fretting in the waiting room with work and books. 

I thought about Mom's surgeon as I wandered the aisles, picking up pastel sugar sprinkles and heading to the refrigerated case for whipping cream.  She was late - nearly 30 minutes - for the procedure this morning.  Then didn't start until about an hour after the scheduled time as she screwed around with changing clothes and doing other suitably egotistical nonsense. 

My tolerance of medical personnel is pretty low for this region of the country.  Dad didn't let me go to chemo since I'm not properly respectful.  But Mom's love for me overpowers her ingrained awe of doctors.  I suppose I'm desensitized - I ask questions and raise my eyebrows when I get sarcastic responses.  And when someone berates my mother for being afraid or in pain?  I become an overprotective bear cub, growling with claws extended and eager to do some damage.

And while I tolerated the wait for the office visit and her dismissal of normal questions before and after surgery, the delays and comments this morning are intolerable.  She's a miserable bitch.  And I'm plotting my comments to her staff so they can tell her I think so.

Luckily, I think we're done with her and on to doctors I've liked better.  Dad's perking up again and my perusal of the blood reports Brother brought home have me feeling better about his progress.  So I'll keep praying and trekking to WalMart and fetching drinks for thirsty parents. 

And tomorrow, we'll make wishes of tiny cupcakes and bowls of ice cream.  I'm planning on blowing out lots of candles - let me know if you need anything.

Dramamine, Ice Cream

"You took your patch off," I realized, watching Mom huddle miserably on the couch, a drastic change from the past days of relative health and happiness. 

"Oh," she whispered, touching the spot behind her ear where they'd placed the medicinal device that had kept the nausea blessedly at bay.  Within hours of its removal, she was unable to eat and looking increasingly wan.

So I called the doctor.

I went to school with the nurse that returned my call, sending me after OTC Dramamine patches. 

"Was she smart?" Dad asked after I hung up with her. 

"Not particularly," I replied, recalling her vaguely but not from my honors classes.  So it should have been no particular surprise that I could not - after 3 drug stores - find any patches next to the pills or at the pharmacy counter. 

"Here," I said gently when I arrived home and sat next to Mom.  "Put this strip on your tongue and it will dissolve."  And while she made choking attempts to do so, I bundled her into acupressure straps and said a quick prayer for relief. 

She's feeling better now, she says from across the room, sitting on the couch and reading her Kindle rather than curled up with eyes closed. 

****

"What kind of ice cream is on that commercial?" Dad asked last night.  He's not been feeling great, but his blood counts and liver function are good and chemo continues.

"With the girl who climbs over the cars to get the ice cream bar?" I confirmed and when he nodded, I looked it up and realized it was Magnum.  And so, on my quest for anti-nausea assistance, I kept an eye out for expensive ice cream bars coated in chocolate and caramel.

"Dad doesn't want us to go with him," Mom told me yesterday.  "Because you're too pushy."  She glanced at me in surprise when I laughed.

"Brother can take him," I replied easily, still amused.  "I've met enough people who don't like me all that much not to be offended.  So if Dad doesn't want me to ask questions, I'm fine to stay home.  It's his therapy."

So Brother rode in on his motorcycle and out in my folks' SUV, Dad in tow, this morning.  He returned our dad post-therapy and went to pick up his girlfriend before mowing the yard.

I brought them dinner, the second stop of my errands, and placed it on the table while they finished riding the mowers around the yard.

"I found your ice cream," I offered to Dad and he smiled weakly before I placed them in the freezer for later.
 We're surviving - it's going pretty well, really - but it's starting to feel hard.  

Iridescent

The pathology report came back today. 

"It's a good report," the nurse said, bemused, after Mom hurriedly handed me the phone.  "Lymph nodes were clean.  Margins were clean.  Stage Ia is confirmed.  So it's as good as it could have been."

"We've been praying," I replied and thanked her for the news. 

And we have - the outpouring of love and support has been tremendously moving.  From the nurses who prayed and friends who bring flowers and family who help.  It's just...lovely. 

I recited The Lord's Prayer into Mom's hair on Monday night as she cried, the pain overcoming her when she tried to lay down to sleep.  I helped her from bed and joined her on the couch, holding her hand and sleepily talking until her medication worked and I was able to settle her.  I rose with each sounding of my phone's alarm to dispense more pills and give gentle kisses on her forehead as she settled back to sleep.

She was feeling so well yesterday that we went grocery shopping for soup ingredients.  And I made mental notes of recipe tricks as we put together vegetable beef in a large pot. 

Aunt and Uncle came today to help change the bandages.  Mom and I got queasy, though we didn't really look, but Aunt was gently efficient. 

The Culligan man came to add water softener salt and joined us in the living room to pray over Dad. 

I took a conference call from the back porch, laughing when colleagues commented over the birds they could hear in the background from my line. 

"It's really good," I told them, looking out at my parents' acreage as it basked in the cool breeze and warm sunshine.  Good results and holding hands and dinners I've cooked.  We nap and watch television and read books.  I do work and return calls from recruiters and set up an interview out of flattery more than interest. 

I have the darkest of dreams, waking to see both parents in the doorway of the guest room in the middle of the night.  They tell me I called for them, sounding so alone and afraid, and I'm sad that my subconscious is so scared.  For it is frightening - the cancer and mortality and treatments that will eventually fail. 

But in the sunshine, it's happy - Dad's feeling better, though he insists on spending a majority of the time in his chair.  Mom is chipper and relieved - the pain not as bad as we feared, results even better than we'd hoped. 

So thank you for the prayers - for thoughts and wishes and hopes you've sent our way.  I'm so grateful and blessed. 

Surgery, Left Breast

"That's on tonight," Mom said while we waited in pre-op, watching stars dance on the morning show.  "Will you watch it with me?"

"Of course I will," I replied, squeezing her hand and smiling, for Mom is lovely under most circumstances but sugar-sweet when scared.  I would have promised her anything, but mostly offered quiet support as I followed her around.

"We have to pray," I interrupted as they tried to rush us to start an IV.  "We have people here."  So we moved to the waiting room and formed a circle with linked hands.  My parents' pastor spoke while 3 of her Great Banquet friends, my dad, Brother and I bowed our heads and pleaded for strength, peace and good results. 

It made me cry, such a moment of love and support and faith. 

"I'm going," I hurriedly offered when a nurse said someone could accompany her as they settled her in a wheelchair and moved away.  So I followed her to a room and murmured reassuringly when her blood pressure was 211/153.  I waited in Radiology while they injected dye - 4 shots - into her nipple to identify sentinel lymph nodes.  Then they placed a wire into the lesion under mammo.  And she was wide awake, shaking but sweet.

I gathered our people when we returned to pre-op, finding space in area 8 for our friends to pray again.  And I finally relaxed when they injected a sedative, watching her finally relaxing, offering one last reminder that she was going home today - outpatient surgery.

We waited - which Friend tells me is normal - and joined her a couple hours later in recovery with all signs positive.  Lymph nodes looked clear.  Margins equally good.  Final report on Wednesday or Thursday. 

She came home and I arranged her, both of us wincing, on pillows in her bed as the incisions stung.  I've been setting alarms to remind us of the pills I went to fetch.  And she's eating!  She never eats after medical stuff, but she had a sandwich and salad and ice cream and is now going for a Rice Krispie Treat!  I couldn't be prouder.

So, as we watch the trios on Dancing this evening, I'm relieved.  And profoundly grateful for answered prayers and good results.

Hunters of Heads

Let's say I get an annual report card as this is not inaccurate and I've just admired Little Ones marks for this year as she completes here 1st grade studies. 

There are, more or less, four areas of assessment in my particular area of Industry.  We could call them Major Projects, Taxes, Soft Skills and Overall Impression.  Now, regardless of how depressed or miserable, unmotivated or self-destructive I have been, I get stuff done.  So whether the projects are high profile or menial labor, I score reasonably high on the first two. 

The Overall Impression, it turns out, suffers a bit when you're miserable and self-destructive.  Perhaps you don't show up at work for a day (or week) or two.  Cancel travel at the last minute because you simply can't be bothered.  Roll your eyes at meetings and sigh over assigned tasks, correct in your predictions that none of this is going to matter anyway.  And when you're unhappy and (mostly) sincere, people - whether external collaborators or high-level executives - notice that you think most of this is bullshit. 

And then you get a Poor on Soft Skills, even though you're capable of cashmere-quality soft skills, which triggers (despite reasonable scores elsewhere) Plans.  Formal Plans.  With deadlines and reviews and everything. 

"I actually prefer this," I told Adam when he told me.  Then I got viciously angry, feeling terribly betrayed, and decided I'd just leave.  And that would show them.  Train someone else!  Start from scratch!  Even though I can do most of this even while I think it's sucky and stupid!  "At least I'll know what you want and how to execute on a plan - I've been asking for a plan for ages."

But as I spent time with my parents and increasing amounts of time in prayer, the anger - as requested - eased.  Acceptance of how badly I'd performed in some instances and what I wanted from my professional life occupied enough of my attention that when I returned to the office, I felt stable and strong and productive.  And though I wasn't necessarily happy and hopeful - flitting about like a happy fairy among fields of delicate flowers - I was quietly encouraging and focused on steps we could reasonably take. 

And the official form for the Plan began to turn green as the leaves budding on trees.  I showed up when my calendar indicated I should.  I spent lots of time at my desk and even more moving around between labs and conference rooms, visibility a clear goal.  When I needed breaks, I went for lunch or to run an errand rather than fleeing home to pajamas and nap time.  I stopped wincing every time my phone rang.  I caught up on emails I'd not wanted to answer and started managing various tasks through happy spreadsheets and pretty PowerPoints.

"It's going so well," Adam mused as we last chatted.  "I'm really pleased so we've shortened the duration of the Plan and we'll have this out of the way in no time."

"Great," I smiled, relieved even as I was puzzled by how easily my formal Plan could morph and shorten in my favor.  I shook my head over how very much power Adam has over my career and thought back on the conversation I'd had with Friend on how boredom seems to set in after 3-4 years.  How it starts to feel like you should be doing something different, new, challenging - this quest toward eternal youth by way of novel places and projects.

So I've been thinking - a lot, actually - about what comes next.  Do I stay, satisfied that I've corrected past mistakes and doing something that I'm absolutely blessed to do?  Or do I leave, returning home in a different industry, unrelated to my education and background.  I have zero desire to return to academic research - even looking at job listings makes me shudder with distaste.  But I can do office work - manage projects and handle customers and make nifty lists and pretty presentations.

"Someone called when you were asleep," Dad informed me on Friday.  I rubbed at the headache my nap hadn't eased and swallowed a Tylenol as I checked my messages, blinking with surprise.  "Who was it?" he asked, ever curious.

"It was a head hunter - my first head hunter," I grinned, absurdly flattered.  "A competitor is interested in my background so she wants me to call back to discuss opportunities."

"Ask them to give you lots of money," he advised and I smiled and shook my head.  I have more money than I really need.  But I should identify what qualities matter - how I can feel productive and peaceful and happy.

In the meantime, Mom's breast surgery is tomorrow morning - 7AM Central time.  If you could send prayers and thoughts and strength to us, I'd be grateful.     

Delicate Balance

Friend looked at me, eyebrows arched in surprise, when I shivered and said I was freezing.  I like the cold in general and a day in the 50s should have had me lifting my face to the wind and sighing in pleasure.  Instead, I shivered again and moved toward the bathroom again.

"Are you OK?" Friend asked gently and I moaned that my head hurt so badly.  It had started in the morning - focused on the right side, a little above my eye.  I'd taken Advil when I woke.  Tylenol before we left.  Excedrin on the drive.  And it wouldn't go away, stubbornly throbbing in concert with my newly-acquired nausea, courtesy of the multiple pills.

"I need to eat," I continued to say.  But given that I was driving and there were multiple restaurants on the way, I'm not sure why I didn't stop.  I finally decided on a place and was slurping soup before nibbling on grilled cheese, watching Friend with her strawberry pancakes.  

"The soup healed me," I reported happily and we continued on our journey.  Zipping sweatshirts against the cold and cameras in hand, we traipsed among the tulips, mostly quiet.  

I watched, a little bemused, as she took photos.  Friend is thoughtful, deliberate.  And I thought worriedly of the photos she'd shown me the night before - every single topiary that graced the grounds at Epcot Center - and looked at the array of blooms in dismay.  If she assigned herself the task of cataloging each of them, her dedication was no match for my impatience and we'd be there for-freaking-ever.  

But each time I glanced up, she was never far away.  She told a few stories.  Pointed out the particularly pretty.  And we walked companionably, crunching through gravel and wandering across grassy paths.  And I clenched my teeth and endured - a growing trend of late - thinking that I'd feel better for a moment before a particularly vicious gust of wind would anger my headache and renew the brutal throb.  

"I make buffers," Friend noted and I nodded, though I'm not really sure what that means.  "And some experiments go all wild, but they just need longer to stir.  Then it all balances out.  Sometimes you just end up with a different pH than when you started."

"You never have enough pictures of flowers," she said later

And though I lost track of our trek through the last two gardens in a haze of misery, the headache eased when we were back in the warm car, additional pills swallowed and jackets shed.  

We drove to, then past, the airport, finding a friendly pizza place to spend a last bit of time together before I dropped her off, clinging when she hugged me before leaving the Jeep (and me) with a wave.  

So I miss her, which is no surprise.  But I got some sleep and went to work and faced my week with some degree of maturity.

"Hey," I answered the phone, machines buzzing around me in the lab as I moved to a quieter spot.  "All done?" I asked Mom of her bone scan.  We'd talked after she'd received her injection - on their way back home - and then she was to return to the hospital for a quick zip through the machine.  

"I think so," she replied.  "Claudia is just making sure the doctor doesn't want to do any more scans.  I wish you were here to look at the images."

"PET scans aren't hard, I don't think," I mused.  "Did you see any bright spots?  Really bright spots, I mean, around your ribs?  Where they thought the spot was?"

"No," she replied slowly.  "But I'll look again.  Call you back," she said and we exchanged 'love you's and I smiled fondly.  

"Spots, Katie," she said quietly when my phone rang again.  "Bright spots.  And they want to do more scans."

"Oh," I replied, sinking into a nearby chair.  "Maybe..." I trailed off, wanting to say something reassuring, able to hear Claudia in the background.  The technologist indicated it could be anything and not to get so upset and I winced as Mom wept.

"Where's Dad?" I asked fretfully and scowled when she reported he was in the car.  I love that he wants to go with her, but if you're going to sign up, then get in there!  There's no waiting in the car in this game, damn it.  "Do you want to pray?" I finally asked, not knowing what else to say and she declined before we hung up again.

"I'm waiting again," she said when she called back.  "I'm going to ask to see the radiologist - I can't wait until tomorrow."  

"It's arthritis," she finally told me.  "Claudia talked to the doctor and showed me the report.  It's OK.  I'm OK."  And despite the relief that rushed through my body, I still shook, literally sick with stress.

But I finished some work, let an adorable Canadian boy rub my feet for 90 minutes and came home to nap.  But whether lying in a darkened room with soothing music or at my desk, repeating work because people keep changing the freaking algorithm, I think of cool breezes and thousands of petals and lose myself in the blooms until reality demands attention again.