Today we wandered around the cemetery, reading the sketchy inscriptions that sum up a person's life. When they were born, when they died, who they married, the names of their children--and occasionally a bit more.
My heart ached for the many parents who buried children who died too young and the children who were left motherless.
I stood before the grave of a woman who bore nine children before she buried her husband somewhere in Ohio on the Pioneer Trail. She married again, and had four more children with that husband--and again, death left her a widow. She married a third time--a brother perhaps, since the last two husbands shared the same last name--and gave birth to one more child.
Fourteen children.
All, without a dishwasher or microwave, without a washer or dryer, without a phone or refrigerator, without a car or indoor plumbing.
Today I feel humbled, and a little more grateful.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
The Rollar Coaster
After celebrating our good news yesterday, today Elena woke up with a fever, and is currently being readmitted to Primary Children's hospital. She has a bacterial infection. The fight goes on. Thanks to everyone for your continued prayers.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Good News!
Elena's bone marrow biopsy came back at 3% leukemia cells, down from 80% (I think), which means she's officially in remission! (But does not mean that her treatment will get substantially easier in the near future.) Thanks to all who have been praying for her; please keep praying!
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Last night my throat felt scratchy. My first thought: I won't be able to see Elena for a while.
The new normal.
Yesterday I went back to work as though nothing had happened since I left Thursday. Thursday--the day I rushed out of work with a to do list that looked like this:
The phone call came while I was standing in the baking goods aisle. Eric on the phone, his voice sober. He wanted to put me on alert. The doctor thought Elena had leukemia. Briana wouldn't be coming to the bridal shower. They were probably headed to Primary Children's Hospital.
Again.
They were there two weeks before when Lily was sick and Elena was with me.
"Time for medicine, Elena."
"It's not green."
"No, it's not green."
"It's not blue."
"No, it's not blue."
"It's not purkle."
"No, it's not purple."
"It's pink!"
I wonder if chemotherapy comes in pink.
I returned to work yesterday, as though I was coming back from any other weekend.
"Hi, how are you doing?"
"Did you have a good weekend?"
"The weekend wasn't long enough, was it?"
No. Not long enough to grieve and try to put life back together again. I've never been good at small talk. I don't know how to answer the questions.
Playground duty gives me time to think. I'm grateful for sunglasses that provide privacy as I walk among the children.
Life goes on, but how can I? My heart aches for my angelic granddaughter and for my little boy in a big body, and for my daughter who I never carried, or nursed, or read to--but love.
It doesn't make sense. None of it does. Yet my mind returns to the song our choir sang Sunday.
"In this very room, there's quite enough love for all of us.
And in this very room, there's quite enough hope for all of us.
There's quite enough love, and quite enough power, to chase away any gloom.
For Jesus, Lord Jesus, was in this very room."
We were encouraged to think of the room where Jesus washed the feet of his disciples. Instead, I thought of a hospital room where blessings were given. In that very room there was quite enough love, and quite enough power, for His Spirit was in that very room.
Faith will get us through.
The new normal.
Yesterday I went back to work as though nothing had happened since I left Thursday. Thursday--the day I rushed out of work with a to do list that looked like this:
- Shop for groceries & gift
- Clean the house
- Make a relish tray
- Thread the elastic through the casings on the sister skirts
- Fix dinner for 6 adults and 4 kids
The phone call came while I was standing in the baking goods aisle. Eric on the phone, his voice sober. He wanted to put me on alert. The doctor thought Elena had leukemia. Briana wouldn't be coming to the bridal shower. They were probably headed to Primary Children's Hospital.
Again.
They were there two weeks before when Lily was sick and Elena was with me.
"Time for medicine, Elena."
"It's not green."
"No, it's not green."
"It's not blue."
"No, it's not blue."
"It's not purkle."
"No, it's not purple."
"It's pink!"
I wonder if chemotherapy comes in pink.
I returned to work yesterday, as though I was coming back from any other weekend.
"Hi, how are you doing?"
"Did you have a good weekend?"
"The weekend wasn't long enough, was it?"
No. Not long enough to grieve and try to put life back together again. I've never been good at small talk. I don't know how to answer the questions.
Playground duty gives me time to think. I'm grateful for sunglasses that provide privacy as I walk among the children.
Life goes on, but how can I? My heart aches for my angelic granddaughter and for my little boy in a big body, and for my daughter who I never carried, or nursed, or read to--but love.
It doesn't make sense. None of it does. Yet my mind returns to the song our choir sang Sunday.
"In this very room, there's quite enough love for all of us.
And in this very room, there's quite enough hope for all of us.
There's quite enough love, and quite enough power, to chase away any gloom.
For Jesus, Lord Jesus, was in this very room."
We were encouraged to think of the room where Jesus washed the feet of his disciples. Instead, I thought of a hospital room where blessings were given. In that very room there was quite enough love, and quite enough power, for His Spirit was in that very room.
Faith will get us through.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
The Uncelebration
On Thursday mornings we have a collaberation meeting at work. The first item on the agenda is always "Celebrations." We go around the group and everyone shares a "celebration." It may be as big as "I have a new grandbaby!" or as simple as "I found cake mixes on sale at Macey's!" It may be work-related--"Jacob passed the rate and accuracy check!", family-related--"My daughter got third place in the spelling bee", or personal--"I'm finally feeling better after being sick for a week." (By the way, those are all actual celebrations I've heard this year--can you guess which ones were mine!)
So, today, as I was driving to work, I was thinking about my celebration for the week. What could I share? I could celebrate that I have dragged myself out of bed for a walk every morning now for nearly three weeks--except that I was UP two pounds this morning when I stepped on the scales :( (Go ahead, tell me that muscle weighs more than fat. I know. I've already heard.)
I could celebrate that Danny got his private pilot's license this week. But--for me--is that really something to celebrate since that means that he spends time FLYING IN THE AIR!!!! (I also know that statisically he's safer up there than on 1-15--but it just doesn't feel that way.) Not to mention that he's probably going to be moving soon to a place where he won't be able to come for Sunday dinner :(
I could celebrate how Eric aced his GRE, but that was a few weeks ago . . . or how I cut out the fabric for the sister skirts for Julie's wedding . . .
At about this point, I look up and notice a car behind me. "Hmmm. That looks kind of like a police car," I think. "Good thing my registration isn't expired." I press on the gas pedal and glance in my rearview mirror again and HIS LIGHTS ARE FLASHING!!!!! I pull over and wonder if something is wrong with the car. Maybe he noticed my brake lights aren't working or something. Nice of him to let me know. Maybe that will be my celebration.
Or not. He says I failed to come to a full, complete stop at the stop sign on the corner, just before I made a right turn. I hand him my license and registration and wait. While I'm waiting, I decide that my celebration will be that he gave me a warning when he could have given me a ticket.
Wrong again. He gave me a ticket. "We just need you to be careful stopping, especially with all the kids in this neighborhood going to school." Say what? It's 8:50. I'm now late for work, thanks to you, and all the kiddies are IN SCHOOL since school starts at 8:30. There is NO ONE on the street.
Ah well. I plead guilty. Apparently I didn't fully stop. I was in a hurry. I looked and no one was there. (Except him, obviously.) But I promise I would have been fully impressed by just the flashing lights and reprimand. The ticket was completely unnecessary.
My celebration? I asked if I could give an "uncelebration" and told my sad story.
So, today, as I was driving to work, I was thinking about my celebration for the week. What could I share? I could celebrate that I have dragged myself out of bed for a walk every morning now for nearly three weeks--except that I was UP two pounds this morning when I stepped on the scales :( (Go ahead, tell me that muscle weighs more than fat. I know. I've already heard.)
I could celebrate that Danny got his private pilot's license this week. But--for me--is that really something to celebrate since that means that he spends time FLYING IN THE AIR!!!! (I also know that statisically he's safer up there than on 1-15--but it just doesn't feel that way.) Not to mention that he's probably going to be moving soon to a place where he won't be able to come for Sunday dinner :(
I could celebrate how Eric aced his GRE, but that was a few weeks ago . . . or how I cut out the fabric for the sister skirts for Julie's wedding . . .
At about this point, I look up and notice a car behind me. "Hmmm. That looks kind of like a police car," I think. "Good thing my registration isn't expired." I press on the gas pedal and glance in my rearview mirror again and HIS LIGHTS ARE FLASHING!!!!! I pull over and wonder if something is wrong with the car. Maybe he noticed my brake lights aren't working or something. Nice of him to let me know. Maybe that will be my celebration.
Or not. He says I failed to come to a full, complete stop at the stop sign on the corner, just before I made a right turn. I hand him my license and registration and wait. While I'm waiting, I decide that my celebration will be that he gave me a warning when he could have given me a ticket.
Wrong again. He gave me a ticket. "We just need you to be careful stopping, especially with all the kids in this neighborhood going to school." Say what? It's 8:50. I'm now late for work, thanks to you, and all the kiddies are IN SCHOOL since school starts at 8:30. There is NO ONE on the street.
Ah well. I plead guilty. Apparently I didn't fully stop. I was in a hurry. I looked and no one was there. (Except him, obviously.) But I promise I would have been fully impressed by just the flashing lights and reprimand. The ticket was completely unnecessary.
My celebration? I asked if I could give an "uncelebration" and told my sad story.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
The Christmas Tree
Tonight, as I've been decorating our tree, I was reminded of something I wrote a few years back on a similar, sentimental night. I thought I'd revive it. So many memories hang on that tree!
I thought about buying a star for the top of the tree this year. I even looked at them. And then I came home empty-handed. Now, as I decorate this tree of ours for the twenty-fifth year in a row, I reflect upon that moment when I chose our cardboard cutout star covered in layers of foil with a hole not quite centered in the middle through which we poke a white light.
I wonder whose hands fashioned that misshapen star.
I’ve often thought our tree looked provincial. Homemade. Thrown-together. I’ve seen other trees–almost all other trees in fact. Perfect in symmetry, perfect in decor. Light dancing on their perfectly spaced glass balls. They’re beautiful!
And then there’s our tree, hung with candy canes and not long enough popcorn strands. A cherished collection of cross-stitched Santas and angels and little toy soldiers–yearly gifts from a grandmother, now gone. Tiny sleds made one year for my two now grown-up and living on their own girls. Broken dried salt water clay framing another daughter’s much younger face. Wooden cut-outs markered and crayoned with bright Christmas colors. Construction paper circles with waded red tissue paper stuck around another school photo; on the back, the inscription: “To Mom and Dad, I love you.” Green and red bead wreaths. Hand prints.
It’s a good thing everyone is gone while I decorate the tree this morning. I can hear their voices insisting those ornaments be thrown away, replaced by pretty ones. Perhaps they are embarrassed by the evidence of their ineptness, but I see only those tiny hands and loving hearts as they made their gifts for me.
I hang the candy canes and smile. Three boxes. They’ll need replenished soon. Even the ones hung high are not safe; it’s only a small stretch for my children these days, and they will also disappear.
There now. It is finished. I step back and look, knowing this is as good as it will get. My carefully spaced ornaments will shift and move as the weeks go by. Even now, little Andrew is admiring the tree–soon his hands will be rearranging things. I pause to admire this work of cherished memories one more time, wiping away a few stray tears. I love our tree!
I thought about buying a star for the top of the tree this year. I even looked at them. And then I came home empty-handed. Now, as I decorate this tree of ours for the twenty-fifth year in a row, I reflect upon that moment when I chose our cardboard cutout star covered in layers of foil with a hole not quite centered in the middle through which we poke a white light.
I wonder whose hands fashioned that misshapen star.
I’ve often thought our tree looked provincial. Homemade. Thrown-together. I’ve seen other trees–almost all other trees in fact. Perfect in symmetry, perfect in decor. Light dancing on their perfectly spaced glass balls. They’re beautiful!
And then there’s our tree, hung with candy canes and not long enough popcorn strands. A cherished collection of cross-stitched Santas and angels and little toy soldiers–yearly gifts from a grandmother, now gone. Tiny sleds made one year for my two now grown-up and living on their own girls. Broken dried salt water clay framing another daughter’s much younger face. Wooden cut-outs markered and crayoned with bright Christmas colors. Construction paper circles with waded red tissue paper stuck around another school photo; on the back, the inscription: “To Mom and Dad, I love you.” Green and red bead wreaths. Hand prints.
It’s a good thing everyone is gone while I decorate the tree this morning. I can hear their voices insisting those ornaments be thrown away, replaced by pretty ones. Perhaps they are embarrassed by the evidence of their ineptness, but I see only those tiny hands and loving hearts as they made their gifts for me.
I hang the candy canes and smile. Three boxes. They’ll need replenished soon. Even the ones hung high are not safe; it’s only a small stretch for my children these days, and they will also disappear.
There now. It is finished. I step back and look, knowing this is as good as it will get. My carefully spaced ornaments will shift and move as the weeks go by. Even now, little Andrew is admiring the tree–soon his hands will be rearranging things. I pause to admire this work of cherished memories one more time, wiping away a few stray tears. I love our tree!
Monday, December 7, 2009
Speaking of Stupid Comments . . .
I had my own this last week. We were leaving the church one evening when I noticed that a couple from our ward were in the library. We walked over and chatted for a bit. For some reason, (and who knows why this would have come up) my sweetie remarked that he'd just read that everyone actually dies of a heart attack.
To which the man in the library said, "And did you know that everyone has cancer."
To which I said, "That explains it. I've always been sure that I have cancer."
The man looks at me, surprised, and says, "You have cancer."
I try to back peddle. This was supposed to be funny. "Well, you know, some place in my body; I'm always sure I have cancer some place."
"I have cancer," he says. "I had surgery for cancer this week, in my colon," he says. "I'll show you." And he pulls up his shirt and shows me the incision.
What was I to say then? I have no response to that?
To which the man in the library said, "And did you know that everyone has cancer."
To which I said, "That explains it. I've always been sure that I have cancer."
The man looks at me, surprised, and says, "You have cancer."
I try to back peddle. This was supposed to be funny. "Well, you know, some place in my body; I'm always sure I have cancer some place."
"I have cancer," he says. "I had surgery for cancer this week, in my colon," he says. "I'll show you." And he pulls up his shirt and shows me the incision.
What was I to say then? I have no response to that?
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