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.

Lantern

I have taken to decorating with lanterns.

"I love that lamp," I sighed when looking for new furniture for Mom.  Something about the curve of the  base.  The dangle of the light source.  The point of illumination in the darkness, protected by intersecting swoops of metal.

We left the store without said lamp - the store charged exorbitant fees for delivery - (of the sofa, not the lamp).  (The lamp can be carried.)  (It sits on a table - it's not exorbitantly heavy.)

Anyway.

It was one of my Christmas gifts - the pretty silver lamp that I didn't need but loved.  It sits perched on the table across the room, near the vase with my dying roses and new WalMart tulips.

On the opposite wall of my cozy living room stands a floor lamp.  Another lantern.  In a different finish that clearly does not match its companion lighting device.  This one I purchased - selecting it from amazon and piecing it together when it arrived, fishing the cord through the supporting pieces, screwing them together (righty tighty) and arranging it by my couch clad in a tan chenille.

They both glow this evening - as they do most evenings when Mom and I reside here - and it provides me some modicum of comfort.  The glow seeming softer and gentler on sleepless nights or grumpy mornings or hopeless evenings.

"You are so cute," Mom tells Sir Sprout and she's right.  He's such a pretty guy.  "I wish you weren't so weird," she follows up and I grin for the feline is spooky.  He is startled by most anything.  Runs from his own shadow.  Literally.  And rebukes any efforts to scoop him up to cuddle.

But - for now - Chienne snores on her corner of the chenille couch.  Sprout bats at Mom's yarn as she knits it into some odd creation.  And I plan my week, considering emails and arranging meetings.

Thirty-four

"Hello," I heard a voice call when I followed Mom into the small floral & gift shop.  "Welcome to my mess."

"Did someone say something?" Mom asked, for her hearing is terrible.  "Did you hear it?  Where'd it come from?"

"I don't know," I murmured, inching toward the door in order to reverse our journey and return to the car.

"I want to buy you flowers," Mom had insisted before we had dined at the Chinese restaurant next door.  When I said we could stop at WalMart on the way home (I'm very suburban), she insisted that we should do something more special on my birthday.  Flowers from a florist.

We both blinked at the piles of crap - scraps of fabric, balls of styrofoam, dried flowers and plastic blooms.

"I still have to clean up after Christmas," the proprietress offered cheerfully and we peered around glass shelves so heavily laden with stuff that they formed an impenetrable wall of sorts.

"Hello?" Mom offered carefully, taking careful steps around the overflowing boxes on the creaky floor while I watched, gathering my coat closer to me so that it didn't knock over the perilously stacked papers on the three card tables with overlapping corners.

I spared a moment to admire their defiance of gravity - no table had all four legs touching the floor and the tops nearly bowed under the weight of their burdens.

"It's Katie's birthday," Mom was explaining to the rather large woman seated in a different nook of the terrifying shop.  "She likes flowers."

The woman smiled and I took a moment to notice she was wearing only one shoe before obediently turning at her direction and squinting through the dirty glass of the cooler.

"Blue carnations, yellow carnations, red roses," she recited and Mom and I exchanged meaningful glances.  "I think there are some pink and white roses in the back there," she said and I shrugged helplessly.

"Roses," Mom decided and I offered that I'd prefer pink or white.  

"May I get them for you?" Mom offered when the woman rose - with no small amount of effort or noise - from her chair.  She refused though, moving slowly toward the cooler and emerging with 3 roses of each color.

We watched, making polite conversation that I mostly carried as Mom looked confused and kept whispering to me that she couldn't hear.

"Don't get old," the shop owner advised as she carefully removed thorns and removed dead petals from the elderly blooms.

"There's not a good alternative," I replied easily, wishing with futility that she would hurry in her task.  I was starting to feel claustrophobic.

I was unsure of the source of my discomfort though - while the environment was uncomfortable, perhaps belonging on Hoarders, it has become relatively common for me to feel breathless with panic or grief or this awful blank depression that sometimes settles over me.

We finally departed and I carried the flowers - wrapped in a sheet of yellow tissue paper stapled at the side - with me to the car.

"They're pretty," I told Mom with a smile.  "Thank you."

"They'll be dead tomorrow," she replied, looking concerned.

"Maybe," I decided, looking at the brown edges of the pale petals.  "But they're pretty today and we provide 30 minutes of company for a lonely lady in an awful shop.  So I think we did OK."

Age 33 was mostly misery - cancer diagnoses and treatments.  Professional failure.  Losing Daddy.  Working through grief remains as sharp as the memories that overtake my consciousness at times.

34 must be better.  Though the roses Mom bought me yesterday are definitely drooping, they make me smile each time I glance at them.

2012

I frowned with two steps left to descend, already craving coffee with cream, when the flickering flames cast moving shadows on the walls of the living room.  It's not like Mom - who stayed with me after Brother and the Ones departed yesterday - to fail in her shut-down-and-lock-up bedtime routine.

I cocked my head and blinked a couple of times before moving toward the kitchen to start coffee, pausing when Sprout wound around my ankle in a bid for kibble.  I was nudging him away so I could place his full dish on his placemat when I heard retching.

I straightened with increasing concern as he scampered away from the noise.  I hurried up the stairs, calling for Mom and taking a second to panic when her bed remained made and upstairs bathrooms were empty.

Jogging back downstairs, I found her in the powder room on the main floor, inquired after her and waited until she finished to help clean the mess as she returned to my comfy couch - a mere 3 steps away - and covered with the pretty chenille blanket I gave her for Christmas.

She has rested under that blue blanket all day between trips to the bathroom while I watched with concern, taking a short break only to try to nap away a migraine.

"Coke," Aunt instructed when I called her and reported our 12 hour long struggle.  "A spoonful every 15 minutes.  It may come up, but keep having her drink."

So I have dutifully spooned soda between her parched lips, watching twice more as she shuffled to the bathroom to make miserable noises.

I finally sat on the ottoman to pray over her, placing one hand in hers and the other gently on her sore tummy.  Head bowed, I asked God for more comfort and healing and rest.  To take care of Dad - who we miss so much despite his lack of efficacy when dealing with illness.  To care for our loved ones, though we avoided seeing them on Christmas.  To help us in our sadness and illness.

I'm not sorry to see this year end - it's been my most miserable collection of days thus far.  Yet my heart has healed a little bit, I think.  I face 2013 with a new MacBook Air so I can attempt to blog more.  I want to dance - looking terribly, breathlessly silly in my living room with my Xbox for company.  I have good goals at work.

And perhaps January 1 will be free of vomit and migraines.  Here's to hope.

With Cornflakes On Top

Mom keeps putting her purse in the dining room.  We've not used it otherwise.

We have, however, cooked.  Or rather she has.  Casseroles from my childhood, two of them topped with cornflakes for extra crunchy goodness.  We go fetch a plate when hungry, resettling in our places on comfortable living room furniture rather than setting a table.

The phone woke me this morning - Brother called on his way to work just after 6AM and Mom clomped down the stairs (louder than a herd of reindeer) to wish him a merry Christmas.  I rolled over, patted Chienne as she remained huddled under the covers, and sighed before descending the steps.

I listened to her conversation while making coffee, returning from the kitchen with 2 mugs and the cordless phone.

After hanging up, Mom and I glanced at each other and shrugged.  So I treated it like most other days and turned on the news while we sipped coffee.

"I would like to open a present," she decided.  So I went to fetch one of her packages - decorated in dancing penguins - and bestowed it upon her.  Wrapped in her new chenille blanket, she pursed her lips and selected a gift for me and one for Chienne, who blinked at the gift sleepily before her tail reached maximum wagging speed while she tore paper away from her new toy.

"Thank you," I grinned upon opening my new Xbox.  It is the Disneyland edition with Kinect - suggested by Brother when I decided I wanted to dance around my living room and collect a multitude of points.  Instead of dance-dancing though, I spent a couple of hours puzzling over the admittedly-simple connection and set-up.

"I can probably figure it out when I get there," Little One offered when she and her sister called.

"I'm almost 34 and have a doctorate," I told her sternly while Mom smiled.  "I will do it myself."  And - after a little more time - I announced victory and began to explore Disneyland by flailing my arms like a crazy person.

"Excuse me," I muttered repeatedly as I crashed into animated people, trees and fences.  I dutifully waved at characters and completed tasks - finding Donald's hat and Minnie's autograph book and Ariel's dinglehoppers.

"Oof!" I yelped when I crashed into buildings while flying with Tinkerbell.  Or tumbling down the rabbit hole for Alice.  My avatar went transparent a lot.  A lot.

But Mom giggled and offered advice and encouragement and I laughed breathlessly at the photos of me attempting to navigate my game.

We opened a few more gifts - I'll admit I'm relieved we went easy on our typical holiday excesses.  Instead, we talked and jumped and danced in front of the television and fireplace.

We had egg salad on freshly-baked bread.  Then connecticut beef supper with cornflakes on top.

It was merry.  For which I'm grateful.  And so I'm wishing you much merriment as well.

Eve

"Don't forget to bring suits," I told Mom when she indicated her sleigh was filled from floor to ceiling.  "Swim," I clarified.  "Though I guess snow wouldn't hurt either."

My landscape (dirt and trees and bushes, etc.) has - at long last - been coated in a layer of fluffy white.  My house seems to be located just at the edges of the blizzard that pushed through, leaving a friendly couple of inches rather than the daunting feet that fell nearby.

I had prepared, shaking my head at the idea of storing my snowblower in the shed until late December, but pushed it up the hill and through the gate and into the garage where it stood ready to clear sidewalks and driveway.

I emerged into a chilly morning, carefully filled it with gas and coaxed it to start.  Breathless after several minutes of fruitlessly yanking a chain, I sighed and murmured to Dad that I didn't know if I could do this.

Then, with a spark of the motor and cough of smoke, the machine roared to life and puttered happily while I blinked back tears and set to work.

I found myself frowning at my meager pile of gifts on Saturday while Chienne whined impatiently at the door, not awaiting Santa but her grandma and cat.  They arrived and I offered a grinning welcome to Sir Sprout before he sprinted from the much-hated car to house-bound safety.  Then I clung to Mom for a moment, nudging away the sadness this season has brought us.

We unloaded the car, my penguin-paper-wrapped offerings soon disappearing underneath 50+ much larger gifts.  We arranged the baby carriages we had assembled at her house and I'll admit to a bemused shake of head when we arranged dolls and blankets in them.

"I told you I have the welcome letters for our trip, right?" I asked Mom and she nodded, confirming that she had swimsuits to wear in the hotel pool.  She and I are spending Christmas at my house - the first time I've ever been away from home - sans tree or decorations apart from a nativity scene.  (Fear not - the fireplace and pile o' presents add some happiness to the decor.)

Brother will fetch his girls en route to Aunt Katie's and they'll arrive on the 26th.  We'll be here for that day and the next before proceeding to our post-Christmas trip at a not-too-far-away mecca for dolls.  That are girls.  From America.  Going all out, I've reserved two rooms at a nearby hotel with a special doll package.  Doll beds and cupcakes with sprinkles and a free movie and space for each of them to spend with either Grandma and Aunt Katie or Brother and his longtime girlfriend.

I'm actually pretty excited about it.

And will likely post photos.

Until then, I'm wishing you snowblowers that start, laughter with family and friends and a really lovely Christmas.

The Tale of the Almost-Right Condo

Upon our journey south, we came across the rental office.  I pulled in neatly and we accepted our packet, listening absently to directions before proceeding to our building - named Island Shores - on the beach.

Seeing a sign with a logo matching the one on the rental office, I once again swung Mom's car into a parking lot, waiting for a teenager to move the orange cones which were placed in every parking spot.

"We valet park for the restaurant," he informed us and I nodded, indicating that we had already checked in disregarding my errant thought of 'our building didn't have a restaurant connected to it.'  He glanced at the parking pass I proudly displayed and obediently moved a cone near the front of the building, helpfully pointing out the carts we could use to move our mounds of luggage.

"This cart says Boardwalk," Mom noted when I returned to the car, pushing the wobbly mass of plastic on wheels. 

"Yep," I agreed, barely glancing at it before beginning to move bags and boxes of soda and water onto it, demanding she assist in my efforts.  We finished loading both levels and I pushed it along, Mom trailing behind me as we moved to the elevator. 

I rolled my eyes at the family in front of us - they didn't see the ramp at the rear entrance to the elevator and had tried to lift their loaded cart up a step.  They succeeded in dumping about half the contents on the floor and I sighed at the silliness of people.

We rode the elevator to the fourth floor and began looking for our room - number 454. 

"Katie," Mom offered hesitantly, "all these numbers are four-eights." 

"Go around the other side," I demanded, glaring at her and refusing to admit I'd been wrong.  "We're on the gulf, not the street," I sneered.  She nodded sweetly, moving on toward the edge of the building and turning - hands facing upward in a helpless gesture - and reported there was nowhere else to go.

And the room numbers still started with four-eight.  Not four-five.

"We must be in the next building," I said on a heavily embarrassed sigh, already trying to determine how I could avoid blame for a mistake entirely my fault.  I jerked the cart around so I could return to the elevator while my mother peered around the edge of the building, helpfully pointing out that she didn't see another building.

"Come on," I muttered, speaking both to the elevator and Mom and she came around the corner to wait beside me, grinning widely.

"Do you really think you picked the wrong building?" she inquired.  "Do you want me to call the guy at the office?"

The doors opened and we went inside, laughing quietly at our silliness.  I steeled myself for embarrassment - though Dad would have said I didn't know and would never see those boys again - and determinedly pushed the car out when the elevator stopped.

"Katie," Mom stopped me, hand gentle on my upper arm, "this isn't where we get out."  So I glanced around at the first floor of condos - not the underground entry the represented our escape.  And I pulled the cart back inside the car, glaring around and asking Mom why we'd stopped here when there was nobody waiting.

"I don't know," she offered, waiting politely until the cart was all the way in and pressing the button marked 1 again, looking befuddled when the doors opened again at the same location. 

She glanced at me with a frown and I closed my eyes briefly before suggesting she push the ground floor instead. 

On the short ride down, we started to giggle, quickly becoming hysterical and clinging to the bar on the elevator and handle of the cart. 

I moved quickly, head up and shoulders back, to the car, determined to load our belongings and exit this mistake as gracefully as possible. 

I winced when I saw Mom moving toward the group of boys instead, purse over her shoulder and hands held upward in inquiry.

"What's this place called?" she asked and I cringed, yanking at the handle of the locked door.  "Oh," I heard her say and she called something to me that I completely ignored before walking over, grinning widely. 

"I told them we were in the wrong building," she informed me. 

"Fantastic," I declared, beginning to re-load the car so we could drive next door and restart the proceedings toward our actual room. 

Vestiges

The remaining rays of sunlight glimmered off Mom's knitting needles as they slowly - painstakingly - wove a prayer shawl.

"Do you pray?" I asked, glancing over from the driver's seat before returning my attention to the interstate. 

"I do," she replied and I nodded, leaving her to her work as I tended to my own - moving steadily southward as the sunset faded off to our right. 

"How far are you going?" a colleague asked when I joined a conference call - apologizing for spotty reception somewhere in Mississippi or Alabama.

"Until we hit water," I replied before elaborating with the name of our destination.  The fact is that Mom loves the ocean.  It makes her happy to sit and listen to the waves.  Feel the sand between her toes.  Bask in the sunshine.

And so, on what would have been my parents' 44th anniversary, we did what they had done so many times - loaded the car and proceeded south.

We stopped along the way - tired and wanting to watch the stars dance around.  We arrived, ending up in fits of giggles because I'd parked at the wrong building, loaded a cart and took our ridiculous quantity of belongings to a floor where our condo decidedly was not.

 Mom called Aunt the next morning, fighting back tears and mourning that the ocean was not the same.  There was nowhere she could go to feel truly happy or peaceful anymore.  And I curled on the couch and stared out our 4th floor window at the water in the distance, cursing it for being so calm.  For not smelling of brine.  For containing too many boats. 

"Dad would have brought his binoculars," she noted as we stared at one ship close to shore.  I nodded, continuing to stare as the men aboard worked, wishing with futility that the beach had brought me some peace.

I sighed heavily when I saw the adhesive fish on the shower floor.  We had looked for adhesive ducks for the tub at home - giggling over the episode of Big Bang Theory that had inspired the search.

I had my toenails painted when he was sick.  One of Friend's visits of mercy was marked with manicures and pedicures and I'd just never removed the sparkling gold that had once covered the tips of my toes. 

I remember it chipping when we cared for him in the last days.  I have clipped away most of it as I've sat - mostly quiet - to mourn.

The remainder clings to the very edges of my nails.  It remains out of no profound reason - I simply can't be bothered with much of anything lately.  I work.  I sleep.  I eat.  I avoid thinking and activities that would require it - talking with friends, writing blog posts, answering emails.  The desire to do so lingers - I want to be better and normal and good again. 

But I'm left feeling like I'm clinging to the vestiges of a life I once loved.  And careful examination will release the wisps that I'm so desperately grasping. 

Nonetheless, I very much hope all of you are well. 

Interpretation of 'Everyone'

I'm quite content with my new job.  I come home mentally exhausted on some days - matching standards to documents to templates to examples.  I'm learning new subjects.  Meeting new people.  Enjoying the sunshine as it streams in my cubicle.

"Hello, Katie," colleagues say as they peek over my chest-high cubicle wall.  I shift my attention from the television screen I use as a monitor and smile at them, amusing myself with the mental image of gophers popping up to say hello.

"Hi, gopher friend!" I chirp in my mind and begin conversations either friendly or professional.

There is additional noise where I sit, but I've purchased a red iPod nano to help mitigate that distraction.  I downloaded a bunch of music from my iTunes account - some songs I've never found time to hear - and fit the now-more-comfortable headphones into my ears.  So I listen and think and work.

I rose from my chair to embrace a colleage as he came around my gopher-proof wall.  I motioned to the table I'd share if anyone sat near me and I cocked my head inquisitively as he sat and opened his computer.

"How are you?" he asked as he glanced up from his screen.

"OK," I replied with a shrug.  "I was home last week and that was difficult.  But overall?  I'm doing better."

We chatted about work and I made notes on certain items.  Projects that had been mine.  Decisions I'd once made.  And I stared at my replacement - the man who'd been awarded the job I'd so wanted - with a mixture of fondness and sympathy.

"So how's it going?" I asked, feeling separate from what once was.  It feels like a different world when I return to that part of campus.  I frown when former colleagues invade my new space - they don't stay against the wall like good gophers but lumber in and take up space, glancing at my photos and shuffling through papers curiously.

He talked about problems and issues and exhaustion and I nodded in response.

"I'm happy here," I noted though he hasn't asked.

"Everyone wonders what you're doing," he replied, shaking his head.  Rather than taking offense, I grinned.

"I've not communicated my new role very clearly yet," I told him.  "I'm getting settled and rumors are settling out - I think people are figuring it out."

"But you were known globally!" he protested.  "And now you're..."

Which made me laugh.

"And now I'm here, sweetheart," I continued to chuckle as I patted his hand.  "I'm still working in R&D.  I feel like I'm doing more good here, actually - making a difference.  I get to travel with my mom rather than catching planes and taking meetings for work.  I listen to music rather than taking endless conference calls."

I paused.  Thought.

"I loved what I did - what we did as a team.  But I had serious frustrations.  I wasn't completely happy.  Obviously.  I needed a change.  And this has been good."

"But everyone," he began and I finally scowled and interrupted.

"There is no 'everyone!'"  I protested.  "It's like saying 'the business feels this is a priority.'  Complete crap.  Someone - who has a name and a life and hopes and dreams - made a decision.  Or wonders what I'm doing.  And I've realized it really doesn't matter.

"Perhaps," I continued, "you're disappointed that I'm not around to do the work you don't like.  And I can say with utmost sincerity that I don't care.  Perhaps certain teams have expressed disappointment that I no longer answer their questions immediately or scramble to meet their needs.  And because I like and respect you - you, not this elusive 'everyone' - I'm telling you that this was the right move for me.

"So if you, and I paused to call him by name, "are wondering if I've regretted my decision to abandon ship, the answer is no.  Not at all.  I don't want to return to academic research.  And I don't want to go back to that level of management.  Not right now.  Probably not ever.  I need my emotional resources for me and my family.  The business - and nobody in it - is allowed to have them to the extent they were once permitted."

He nodded and I waited for him to indicate he missed working with me.  That my contribution was considerable.  But that acknowledgement did not come and I found it barely stung. 

So I'll say this as a reminder to myself - especially as I seem to find myself here repeatedly - consider the goal.  And weigh that against the cost.  Life is full of options and perhaps some appear unattractive until you're forced to examine them more closely. 

"Is God taking care of you?" Mom asked one night as we cried together over the phone and I told her to trust in Him. 

"He is," I replied.  "He does.  It just takes me some time to accept it sometimes."

Oncubiquitous

 "It - by nature - metastasizes."

I remember sitting in an elegant auditorium at my post-doctoral institution, listening to a seminar that I hoped would assist in my aquisition of additional funding.  Instead, I frowned as I listened to him speak - showing elaborate drawings of cells breaking free from the primary tumor and exploiting the body's normal functions in an attempt to find a new site to invade. 

"So you can't win," I remember thinking.  "You either die of cancer or you get lucky and die from something else sooner."

And while my oncology knowledge is outdated at best and perhaps not-exactly-correct at worst, I still have this feeling that cancer is always lurking.  Waiting.  Watching.  Tumbling end over end through the blood stream or lymphatic system, searching for a suitable spot.

Likewise, grief infiltrates - curling threadlike tentacles from the television where commercials urge you to seek better treatment for your specific kind of cancer.  Swat absently at you when everything turns pink in October.  Knock you off balance when an admin's husband dies from the same kind of cancer Dad had.  Pummel your heart when a dear friend who'd been viciously protective of me earlier this year deals with his father's diagnosis, surgery and chemotherapy.  Tug at your attention until you're crying while watching Dancing with the Stars because there's a certain performance on Country Night that's a little too poignant. 

I mostly endure.  Approach each day gently and carefully.  Treasure the moments of happiness and laughter and do my best to guard against the terror and sadness even as I acknowledge the futility.

I prayed on Monday morning, hand on Mom's head as she trembled with dread. 

"Help us," I begged God.  "Blanket us with strength and mercy and comfort as we go back to the cancer center.  To the place Daddy went every Thursday so he could try to stay with us.  We miss him a lot.  And I know you're keeping him safe and that you love him.  So love him extra this morning and love us too."  I gulped, took a breath and continued. 

"Bless those who are there today or any day.  Battle the cancer and the side effects and bring those patients and their families comfort and joy and peace.  Give us those things too - Mom and Brother and me.  Amen."

I felt strong until we got there.   Yet once we climbed the stairs and turned left to Pod C, I began to tremble.  I glanced nervously around in the crowded waiting room.  Popping up from the edge of my seat when we were called, I followed Mom to the same spot Dad would sit as they'd check his blood pressure, weight and temperature. 

And I started to cry. 

We went in the same room we'd visited with Daddy.  And I thought about how I hadn't known he was slipping away from us so fast. But I clung to Mom's hand and stared across the room at Brother, focusing on the inhale and exhale.  Mom prompted me to tell a funny story from our trip north and I was interrupted when the oncologist opened the door.

I went still when I saw him - the doctor my parents decided to share - and felt my eyes go wide and heart race.  He sat for a moment, asked questions I can't recall and I frowned when he had Mom leave my side to sit on the table.

"You're doing great," he told her as she perched on the edge.  We'd had to help Daddy with the small step toward the end.  And he couldn't lie back because of all the pressure in his belly. 

"I don't need to see you for another year," he continued as I was plagued by flashes of memory.  Dad's hat that boasted that he was a veteran.  The way he'd recline in the treatment room as they dripped poison into him for hours.  His cheeks would flush.

"The prognosis is excellent," he concluded, turning when I began to sob, clutching Brother's hand helplessly as the grief drowned me.  Why didn't we help Dad earlier?  Why couldn't he be great?  Skip appointments for a year?  Have an excellent prognosis?  It's not fair.  None of this is right and I hate it and I lost control as my emotions rioted for long moments in Exam Room 1.

I faced away from but next to Brother as we stood at the desk to pay and make Mom's next appointment.  I linked my arm through his and stared out the window, struggling for control.  I watched a train go by.  Gazed at the rustling branches of trees and tried to numb myself to what was happening inside.

"We've been waiting for hours," a young woman said behind me.  "My dad was supposed to see the doctor and get treatment, but we're still waiting."  And I held Brother's arm tighter as they told her they were scheduling an ultrasound for him.  They'd try to remove some of the fluid so they could begin treatment again.  And I clenched my teeth and tried to pray as my younger sibling sobbed into my hair. 

"Mom," I gasped and called her again when she didn't answer.  She finally transferred her gaze from the wall to my face. 

"Please," I begged.  "Let them bill us.  Send an appointment card.  Please?"  She nodded.  The familiar office staff nodded.  And the three of us raced down the steps and out the door, my gasping sobs echoing shamefully through the two-story lobby.

We finished most of a box of Kleenex on the drive home, all trembling and exhausted and so terribly sad.  Mom and I napped, fingers linked, and Brother returned the next day.  We had a nice time on Tuesday - looked for furniture for Mom and laughed and ate and I paid $500 for the repairs on the truck Dad bought Brother. 

But Monday was misery. 

And that misery lurks.  Ever present.  Always waiting. 

And my awareness thereof is excruciating. 

The Cherry on Top

Because I find myself unable to describe my vacation in words. 

Window, Gate & Other Entryways

 "If you miss this light, I'm going to kill you," I threatened my mother in Green Bay.

We'd been driving for hours - having forsaken the very idea of a flight - and traveling steadily north before taking a little detour on our way Lake-Michigan-ward.

"There it is," I noted, pointing at the football stadium as we peered out the windows.  "It looks fairly new - did they rebuild it?"

"I don't know," Mom said.  We looked at each other, shrugged, then sat through every flipping traffic light in the city to get back to the interstate.

She gave me a look - that long-suffering maternal one - as we merged back on 43N.  "I asked if you wanted to stop and you said you didn't care."

"I was trying to be a good travel companion!" I cried.  "I didn't know we'd go upwards of an hour out of the way to look at a stupid stadium that looks like any other big building!  And then only stop at ShopKo to look at t-shirts!  They probably have Packers t-shirts at the ShopKo at home!  And you only bought bottles of water anyway!"

That has been, however, our only squabble thus far.

I paired her phone with her car - the former chirps happily every time we enter the vehicle now.  "It is one with the car," I say and we both grin when we answer a call by pressing a button on the steering wheel.  

I giggled almost incessantly on our ferry ride to Washington Island.  Mom white-knuckled it through, trying to keep the large boat from rocking in the rough waters by sheer force of will.  I held her hand and tried to talk to her but continued to laugh each time she'd jump and glare out the windows.

We had coffee and shared a scone and cinnamon roll in Gilles Bay.  We're sharing a room in Egg Harbor - on that overlooks the water from its perch on a bluff.

"It's freezing in here," Mom decided when we arrived so I dutifully turned up the heat until the room was suitably toasty.  In the meantime, I sat on our balcony with my laptop - revising documents and basking in the cool breeze and lingering sunshine.

When we returned from dinner - at the place that has goats on the roof in the summertime - the room was breathtakingly hot.  I opened the balcony door, sleeping about a foot from the opening to catch as much fresh air as possible.

I awakened from a fitful sleep to find Mom throwing open the doors as much as possible.  "It's so hot in here," she muttered, shuffling back to bed and I murmured my agreement, finally relaxing as the room cooled. 

"It's so pretty," I repeated when we stood on the beach covered with stones.

And it is - the two-lane roads and brilliantly-changing leaves and the water that cuddles the land at every corner.

We stood together in the place where she and Daddy visited a couple of years ago, leaning to smooth the rocks with our thumbs before replacing them on the beach as we stood for another moment in the cold rain.

We waddled back across the beach, losing our balance on the slippery stones a couple of times, and returned to the car once again.

"I'm tired," I decided as I drove from the parking lot and back on to one of the island's roads.  "Where's Main Road?" I asked and grinned as Mom smiled back at me.

She soon grew somber though, knowing we had to battle another boat ride.  But we held hands, giggled and distracted each other until that, too, had passed. 

Dashed Hopes (undashed)

I came home early today, leaving my friendly cubicle before 4 and commuting home, going ever-so-slowly through my neighborhood in search of a shy feline with a stripey coat.

"I kind of hate him," I admitted to Friend the other night.  "It's too cold outside so he's brought a mouse inside so that he can torture the poor thing for longer."  Then Sibling came over, suitcases in tow, and beheld the half-eaten body of a dear-departed mouse. 

"I'm dropping it," I wailed as I hurried to the garbage, rodent corpse clutched in a wad of paper towels, bloody tail dangling from the mass.  "Ew, ew, ew..."  After I finished gagging, I cursed the cat - sending him off with a glare and refusing to make eye contact for a full 24 hours afterward.

I've battled to keep him inside though Chienne has joined Team Sprout-ness, dallying as she wanders out the sliding door so he has adequate time to dart past. 

"Yes," I replied to the woman on the phone.  "He's a short-haired tabby.  6 or 7 years old.  Such pretty green eyes."  She dutifully entered my information in a lost pet form and I sighed as I finished the conversation. 

Sir Sprout would abhor the animal shelter so I was sort of pleased he'd not been injured, captured and taken to our (admittedly excellent) local Humane Society. 

But it's so cold at night.  And he'd been gone since Saturday evening, ignoring my calls and avoiding his typical hiding places all day yesterday and today. 

"He only likes the indoor formula of Cat Chow," I wanted to disclose if he'd found a new family.  "He loves to play dot with the laser.  He doesn't trust men easily.  Enjoys catnip and scratching posts but only if they're in places where he feels safe.  And he likes to sleep in the sunshine."

Far less importantly, I kind of met someone.  Who didn't call.  And though I know cell phones should alleviate that particular torture, I still thought he might have tried my land line.  So maybe I'd return home to a found-cat and left-message. 

But it was not to be. 

So I fretted over the cat, knowing I don't want another.  I'm not really a cat person and had Sprout not selected us by hiding in my flower bed, I would have remained with dogs. 

"Sprout?" I called again, opening the sliding door and peering outside.  "Mr. Sprout-sprout?" 

And just as I began to slide the door closed, I frowned.  Because I thought I'd heard him answer.  Not unlike his reply when I'd called a gentle inquiry when a kitten-version of the cat had hidden in my front bushes, seeking a place to live. 

"Sprout?" I tried again, squinting into the darkness and beaming when he leaped up the stairs to the deck and scampered inside. 

He even let me scoop him up to cuddle, rubbing under his chin and smoothing the dirt from his coat before I bent to fill his dish with kibble. 

"I'm glad you came back," I admitted, leaning to pet him again.  "I do love you, my silly Sproutness."

And now we return to our typical inside vs. outside battle routine. 

Injury Ignored

I know not how I did it.  One moment, I was in my basement, curled on my old couch and reading from the pile of paperbacks littering the floor.  Another, I was dutifully piling said books and loading them on shelves.  Finally, I was frowning down at my ankle, disturbed by the pain it was causing. 

Not wanting my ankle to be sore, I stood on my healthy leg and shook out the sore one.  Rotated it in circles.  Gave a warning glare.  Then cursed at my right ankle when it continued to cause pain to shoot through my leg when asked to bear weight.

Returning to the couch, I propped myself on pillows and blankets, assuming my little nest of healing would work its magic and I'd soon be all better.  However, when trying to climb the stairs, I realized I was decidedly not healed.  And my limping stride up the stairs was surpassed in pace by my elderly, blind canine friend. 

"I'm injured," I explained when she waited for me at the landing.  She wagged her tail sympathetically before wandering to the sliding door and waiting to be let outside.  I hobbled over, shaking my ankle vigorously for good measure, and opened the door, taking a moment to inhale the scents of fall outside. 

I did the same this morning - clipping a leash to Chienne and stepping off the front porch to begin our walk.  I had decided I was going to be all better and my ankle was cooperating beautifully. 

Until it suddenly stopped - a vague ache morphing to sharp pains apropos of nothing.  So I paused for a moment, Chienne obediently glancing backward before sniffing at a tree trunk.

I find myself avoiding those pauses for the most part.  Remaining quietly busy - hosting Sibling before she abandoned the gently rolling hills of the upper Midwest for towering buildings and busy streets in NYC.  Immersing myself in my new team - leading activities to build our interaction skills, drowning in documentation and revisions and lengthy arguments about said changes. 

"I'm happy," I replied when someone from my old team asked during an event I'd organized last week.  "I know it happened almost accidentally and I had panicked moments where I wondered if I was taking a professional step back.  But I do like it.  I can do good things here.  I'm sincerely pleased."

It's effective - this 'pretend it's all fine' strategy.  If I'm busily distracted, I don't worry about Mom or long to talk with Dad.  But when the grief startles me - breaks through the flimsy protective barrier I've built - it's overwhelming. 

I returned from a dinner out one evening, already tapping at my laptop to reply to email as I'd drank but one glass of wine and was in fine shape to continue working, I called Mom - as is my now-daily habit - to check in.

And she wouldn't stop crying.  I prayed.  And talked.  And blinked back my own tears.  Cursed the three hour drive that stood between me being present for her.  So I called Aunt and asked her to go.  Once she was en route, I moved to the recliner Dad gave me - the one I never-ever use - and sat on the edge of the seat. 

And I wept.  Unable to push it down or lock it away, the pain escaped in wretching sobs that had me curled in a ball.  Grief escaped, filling the house with violent expulsions I could neither control or pause. 

I slept afterward, swallowing a tiny tablet that eases anxiety before climbing the stairs to bed.  I lapsed into rest with the sounds of my pitiful moans echoing in my ears. 

"It's all so painfully different," I told Friend when I called one night.

"Yes," she said, voice beautifully familiar and soothing.  A reminder that some people who were part of what was good before are still part of what will come and be good again.  "It's all completely different.  And not all that different at all."

Though I've mangled that quote - let's call it artistic license and crappy memory - it helped.  When I'm ready to acknowledge it, I'll note that the changes have occurred.  That some are lovely and others grotesque.  But - whether noted or ignored - it will be OK.

Though my ankle still hurts.