tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42608293630331064332024-02-06T20:53:25.027-08:00The Good News Column"Your Smiles Make Me Smile"renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.comBlogger67125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-19623821483447455222012-11-23T23:04:00.002-08:002012-11-23T23:31:16.985-08:00BLANKET TOSS<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Today I received a very special letter from
someone I knew a long, long time ago. She knew me during my knocked kneed
cheerleading days; during my one too many drinks at a party days; and during my
days of Farrah Fawcett hair, football player crushes, and invincible
narcissism. Today, after years of having lost touch, she took time out of her Thanksgiving weekend to tell me that
she has truly been moved by my courage, strength, and ability to always see the
“sunny side.” While I am appreciative of her words, the simple truth is that whatever attributes I possess have nothing to do with me...and everything to do with you.</strong></span>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>While my words and my sentiment might come from my heart, my heart is nothing more than a reflection of the unrelenting love and support I have received from all of you. The real lesson for me over this past year was in finding just how
giving and selfless and to what end those of you were willing to
rally around me for my well being; and in your support I was humbled. Real friends and real family are not fair weather, no
they are not. In fact, not only were all of you cheering me on, praying
for me, sending packages and cards and love, calling me even when I didn’t
return calls, wanting to visit even when I didn’t want company, you
empowered me every single moment of every single day. You didn't abandon me
while I cried and cussed and sweated and puked. You didn't abandon me when I became bitter and angry. You didn't even abandon me after my treatments were over and my personality took a turn for the worse. In fact, even more so, you nourished my spirit with your unconditional love and friendship beyond ever my greatest expectations. How do I say "thank you"?</strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>In the very beginning when I quickly learned that friends and
family were going to come out of every corner of my universe to offer support,
I happened to come across a watercolor painting on the Internet. This piece of
art was screaming at me, simultaneous to the news of my diagnosis and so many of you jumping into the fire to rescue me from the potential ruins of my physical and emotional being. Although I have no real appreciation for
art, probably less than none, the metaphor I value behind this very piece of art is too great
not to share and too important not to own.</strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>This water color was created by my Aunt Vicki Rearick. She is a
gifted Alaskan artist. She is also a wonderful aunt. Coincidentally it was
my Aunt Vicki’s lap I well remember sitting on at the tender age of six when I was first diagnosed with tuberculosis; t<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">he day she wrapped her warm arms around me while I sobbed into her chest. </span>Now, after being diagnosed with cancer, I
stumble upon her artwork, some 3000 miles away, yet again, finding comfort.</strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><br /></strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>I was sitting in front of my laptop doing random family searches
which I do often just to see if I can find any family gossip or "unclaimed
money." I do this often when I am bored. In fact, I have found most everyone
money but myself, and I often get calls from random people to thank me
for the $180 or the $26 they received in the mail. If you think you might have
"unclaimed funds" just go to the State (of Alaska or California or whatever) website (make sure
it's a .gov site) and type in "unclaimed funds." It's typically under
the controller's link...you too could have “unclaimed funds!” Anywhoooo....no this is not a gimmick. They could have YOUR money!</strong></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><br /></strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>But there I was Googling whatever family members came to mind and up pops this piece of art
called Blanket Toss. I wanted it. I needed it. I had to have it. The message
was too loud, too important, too great not to have it in my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Luckily, my aunt having only one original, had
never sold it. She generously gifted it to me after my incessant nagging to her
son (my cousin Richard) and a few phone calls to Aunt Vicki. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It now hangs proudly in my living room, with a
rich brown custom made frame, golden double matting, under museum glass. This
piece was too important not give it the best home possible.</strong></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>But here's the real story. I was falling apart. I couldn't see my
future. I saw darkness and fear, pain and the possibility of death. And you, in
all of your greatness, and unconditional caring, and unselfish love....you held
me up so I could see in front of me. You rallied around me. You cheered me on.
You were there to catch me as I fell.</strong></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><br /></strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>The origins of the blanket toss go beyond celebration, but to a
place of survival. The native people of Northern and Western Alaska would use a
blanket made from the hide of a walrus to toss a member of their hunting party
high into the air to spot game such as walrus, seal, whale, and polar bear.
This practice was a means of survival in their often harsh environment.</strong></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia;">I am the girl high in the air. You are the ones holding me up.</span></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span></strong></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>This painting is an important reminder of what
really matters. Beyond this being one of my aunt’s creations and a reflection of
life in Alaska, it is a reflection of the importance of family, friends, and our need for one another for mere survival. It is a priceless reminder of the absolute
unselfish love and generosity that the human spirit is capable of. I see, in this, each and every one of you from friends, to
family, to coworkers, holding me up high so I could see beyond the harshness of
my moments, the chemo, the radiation, the surgery, the emotional devastation, and into my future. I see the trust I knew I could count on, knowing you would catch me when I came falling down, and fall I did, many, many times. At times, just from the fallout of life, I am still
falling, but now I see beyond survival. I see the celebration of life, which is what most of us know about the good old Alaskan blanket toss.</strong></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><br /></strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>What you have gifted me with cannot be summed up in words, but it can
be depicted in the true and many meanings </strong></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><strong>of the Native American blanket
toss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Survival takes a village.</strong></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><strong><br /></strong></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>I often write about what's really important and how during the most difficult of times, we should hold on to that as the core of our existence. My stories are
repetitive, I know, but they are true.</strong></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><br /></strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>It is because of you that I could see my future. It is because of
you that I held my head high. It is because of you that I found my courage,
my strength, and my ability to see the “sunny side.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In all of this, I was merely reflecting the gift that you
so generously gave to me. </strong></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><br /></strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>And so, not just on Thanksgiving but each and every day, I am beyond grateful for every single one of you. Thank you.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><br /></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Sweet Dreams and Always
GOOD Dreams,</strong></span></div>
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</strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>~Renae~</strong></span></div>
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renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-76059456035051782912012-09-22T16:08:00.001-07:002012-09-22T23:17:48.936-07:00THE DAY I DIED<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My mother said that on the day that I was born, there was snow on the ground. It was unusual for the early part of October, October 8 to be exact; but I was smiling anyway when I arrived.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Last year I decided to
take a week off for my birthday to play catch up on my life. You know, all the
things that get in the way of really living…the oil changes, the laundry, the
yearly check-ups.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was at least four
months behind on everything, so as a birthday gift to myself, I took the week
off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was the week before I died.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I knew I had a lump in my
breast, but I was able to dismiss it because prior check ups and mammograms had
always turned up negative. The pain in the lump had increasingly begun to
throb, which concerned me, but nothing that wouldn’t show up on a mammogram; or
so I thought.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What they never told me
was that I had dense breasts, meaning that mammograms might reflect a false
negative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although my OBGYN had this
information in her records, she never shared it with me, or maybe she never
read the details in the report from a prior mammogram.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Regardless, all I got was the yearly letter
that I was fine and they’d see me next year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I trusted in that.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A week after my birthday,
after burying myself in corn at the corn fest and hiding in the corn stalks
while trying to scare my daughters, and considering stealing an ear of corn
only to be lectured by my eldest that they would kick me out and never allow me
back in the corn maze again, (not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever!)</i>,
we innocently laughed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We laughed while eating
barbecued pork sandwiches on cowboy style benches while being entertained by a
little boy dressed in a super hero costume; we laughed while taking goofy
pictures on the bridge that looks over one of the biggest corn mazes in the United
States.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I basked in my favorite time of
the year, autumn, the time when the crisp of the new season is a reprieve from
the hot summer air and the leaves show hints of oranges and reds and dance upon
the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A week after we laughed, I
received the letter. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At that moment,
everything I believed and thought and held to be true vanished; at the moment
when innocence was lost, I died; and that was the last of the girl that I used
to know. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was poetic really, a
beautiful end to my life during my favorite time of year, while simultaneously the
leaves continued to turn color with the season’s change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Knowing that Christmas carols would ring
without me was painful really, and I grieved with that new knowledge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But knowing that Christmas carols would ring
without me was also liberating. The world would rejoice in all the beauty
bestowed upon it, with or without my existence, and in that I found the freedom to
let go, and in that very moment was when I also found the freedom to truly live.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can’t speak for others,
but the day I was diagnosed with cancer was the day the squealing of the tires
came to a screeching halt, the movie stopped, the lights went out, and I found myself
alone in darkness and silence. People often ask me “What stage?” But when I was
diagnosed, there was no stage, there was finality. No tomorrow, no yesterday, only
the here and now; this one breath that I am able to take right…now, this very
second.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stage? Oh I wish it were so
simple to explain in a stage, but let me describe the truth of my diagnosis,
the moment when I realized that death is a very real very inevitable part of
life. My cancer diagnosis wasn’t a matter of how long I had to live, but of an
even greater truth that my physical being will eventually die.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It may not even be from cancer, it could be
from falling in the shower and hitting my head, or a multitude of other
things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t the cancer diagnosis
that I feared, it was the finality of death, and that knowledge came to me,
screamed at me in painstaking agony via the cancer diagnosis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was really as simple as that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In that knowledge, I cried, hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grieved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At times I couldn’t breathe it hurt so badly and I gasped for my next
breath. Sometimes I cried so hard that I could only open my mouth, yet the pain
was so overwhelming that no sound came out. I screamed without words. I cussed,
and I sat at times in silence drained of all feeling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I reminisced about everything and everyone I
ever loved and the unbearable thought of losing them. The “stage” couldn’t be summed up in
a number, but in the enormity of grief. And then slowly, oh so very slowly, by
allowing myself to grieve the loss of myself, I learned to live again. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A year has gone by, and
my favorite season is upon me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am
watching a hummingbird take in the aroma of the last of the summer wisteria blossoms
as I write this. I had to stop to take it in. That’s what I do now when I see
beauty, I stop. I bask. I live fully in the moment.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A very brave woman that I
have been fortunate to know wrote the book “Blessed with Cancer.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I generously received a copy from her
after my diagnosis, I was too angry at the cancer to understand how anyone
could ever feel blessed with cancer. Admittedly, I hid the book in the top
shelf of my closet, with the spine to the wall, cursing at the very thought that
anyone could think cancer is a blessing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But I get it now. It isn’t the illness that’s the blessing, it’s the
awakening that comes with it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Over the past year I have
learned the very meaning of life, unlike I knew in my former life. Unlike I
understood when I heard clichés that I readily dismissed as soon as the next
item on my to-do list popped into my head. I actually stop now to smell the roses.
I stop to watch hummingbirds. I stop to laugh.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In all of my innocence and hope and childlike fantasy that life would last forever, approximately one year ago, I did in fact, die.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But paradoxically, the autumn colors are
brighter than before, the sound of music, more beautiful, and with my death, in
abundance, came life. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6KdH032xVgA63-w9lw0iaJlQPM9nSDpZdjplTKrjWm5uefkc5SvqGPzZgbaN05JJ1Zvc3Z4ZIaqum-g-EmrPbvI1CytuzeWtatQQ5vLUHxjVmZ2gF_Cv4Lown3wa2iGRrMz9kMrU1MeaF/s1600/October+8,+2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6KdH032xVgA63-w9lw0iaJlQPM9nSDpZdjplTKrjWm5uefkc5SvqGPzZgbaN05JJ1Zvc3Z4ZIaqum-g-EmrPbvI1CytuzeWtatQQ5vLUHxjVmZ2gF_Cv4Lown3wa2iGRrMz9kMrU1MeaF/s320/October+8,+2011.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Don't miss it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sweet Dreams and Always
GOOD Dreams,</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Renae</span></div>
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renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-61883402973370439302012-07-12T12:10:00.001-07:002012-07-12T12:36:57.639-07:00HOPE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi48k-6D2xZj2Wd5UtS1tTh5LZlBI2WTjKbmzPXVT7TBrodq0V0RPby3d8aUfSFmHjHDRInyFAznMMFTfm27DVbf71wKoFIvm_T1K6mzlHcKPpmI-Ml5UaVuwGljbOzKyp0oOuc1dKyVqLi/s1600/005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi48k-6D2xZj2Wd5UtS1tTh5LZlBI2WTjKbmzPXVT7TBrodq0V0RPby3d8aUfSFmHjHDRInyFAznMMFTfm27DVbf71wKoFIvm_T1K6mzlHcKPpmI-Ml5UaVuwGljbOzKyp0oOuc1dKyVqLi/s320/005.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It was truly a dark and stormy night. A week
prior to this gawd awful wind blowing, rain pounding, deck roof slamming on the
eves night, I had taken comfort in watching the Mourning Doves do a change of
the guard on the nest. Every year I wait for this. Every year there are eggs;
some years there are babies, some years the eggs are stolen, but every year, I
wait. There is something soothing to my soul about mother nature that I don't
quite get from anything else; not even from a Klondike bar during a heat wave.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: black;">O</span><span style="color: black;">nce the Mourning Doves build and sit on the
nest, I look out at them often, smiling, through my glass sliding door, impulsively
checking on them as one would on a sleeping baby, just to reinforce that
everything is right with the world. There are even those times that I’ve been
known to open the glass sliding door and tweet in bird speak, or sing a lullaby,
so they know that I am a friendly human. Only this time, when I looked out the window,
no one was there. I was a little surprised because Doves don't typically leave
the nest without reason, and when they do it is momentary. I was right.
Stupidly, no sooner than I went out to the deck to stand on a chair and see the
itty bitty baby for myself did the mama (or papa) bird (they look the same)
come swooping at my head. Fearing decapitation, I ran inside the house and hid
behind the door, like a child who had been caught with her hand in the cookie
jar. Then slowly, I opened the door about half an inch while speaking softly to
the Dove, apologizing for upsetting its day and in hopes of reinforcing that I’m
a good human. After all, I just wanted...a peek.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After that, I vowed not to go out on the deck
anymore, at least not until the baby had left the nest so as not to disturb their
little family; but then came the storm with a vengeance and even the best
intentioned plans fail. It was dark and cold and the rain was unrelenting, pounding
on my windows like military personnel attacking with multiple bb guns. I could
hear the roof of my deck being picked up and slammed down, up and “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bam”</i> down. The wind sounded like an angry ghost
whispering in the night. I was very sick that night, in fact, I was left extremely
weak from a recent round of chemo, but something told me to check on the
nest. Maybe it was just natural instinct
that knows that even in the most difficult of times, I am still a mother. Only
twenty minutes before, the Dove was sitting on the nest looking miserable. Her wings were shifting up and down from the
wind, her eyes squinting as though she could not stand the cold, or the fear. I
worried that she would not stay through the night to protect her baby. She didn’t. I waited...and waited...with a
sense of panic for the baby’s life growing by the minute. There is no way the
baby would make it through the night without warmth, perhaps it was already
dead. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And so I did what I always do in these
situations, I told Richard (my better half) to go rescue the bird. I went
first, peeking in the nest, afraid of touching the feathers that encompassed
this little tiny life, no bigger than a golf ball. Suddenly I could see the bird’s
chest slowly rise and I went into action. “You <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have </i>to get the bird Richard! Get the bird!” I ran in and found a little
bird-sized box, filled it with toilet paper and leaves from the now dead flowers
that had been given to me during my treatment, and covered the box with a
blanket. I called a local vet clinic for direction. I forgot how sick I really was
while we ran into the pet store to pick up food and a feeding syringe. I didn't
sleep much that night, as I kept checking on the baby bird, just to make sure
it was still breathing. The first thing in the morning, Richard drove me and
the little bird, barely breathing, to the local pet hospital. Thank God for the
Lindsay Wildlife Museum. They couldn't tell me if this little life would live
or die, only that I could call and check on it.
“And when you call, ask for an update on 607.” I guess they give numbers
instead of names. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">For weeks I called regularly to get an update.
My dad had told me the bird probably wouldn't make it. Being a farm boy he
believed that when babies are removed from their natural environment they
typically die. But I, being the 5<sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">th</span></sup> grade girl that walked 31 miles in
the rain in one day to raise money for the Walk For Hope, and I, being the girl
that won the 4th and 5th grade talent show without having had any talent,
believed that 607 would live. I had hope.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Maybe I needed to have hope. Maybe in my world
of cancer treatments and illness, and the fear of death, I needed to believe in
life. Whatever the reason was, I needed 607 to live. This little baby bird
represented something great that at the time I couldn't find anywhere else.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Not too long after I called to check yet again
on 607. "Oh!" they exclaimed. "He is healthy and has been
released into the wild!" "You mean he lived?" I asked. "Yes
he did!" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">On May 15, 2012, against all odds of survival, 607
extended his wings to start a new life in the wild. That is what hope is after
all; in the face of fear and disenchantment, believing in the best possible
outcome; holding onto faith even when the storm is pounding on your windows.
Hope is what I pray for everyone. Fly little bird, fly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Sweet Dreams And Always GOOD Dreams</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">~Renae~</span></div>
</div>renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-76854339412516702962012-06-27T13:43:00.000-07:002012-06-27T13:55:17.693-07:00HOT DOG!!!!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpIQjwg1Hi-kIwBUnAIpFfgmrGQsoN0tX_5pOlLtkVagjM7ZnSz5pwCfit2UsRiKn_UoKCrHbLx8lc5oS3G-iKFi7AlaFjgjDFefUpgE4afyyjUKUPcWM7TVAdJcA0GDFVTiUS4UVz4T3L/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpIQjwg1Hi-kIwBUnAIpFfgmrGQsoN0tX_5pOlLtkVagjM7ZnSz5pwCfit2UsRiKn_UoKCrHbLx8lc5oS3G-iKFi7AlaFjgjDFefUpgE4afyyjUKUPcWM7TVAdJcA0GDFVTiUS4UVz4T3L/s320/images.jpg" width="275" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I have spent much of my life <em>not</em> minding my own business to the
chagrin of those who live in a “mind your own business” kind of world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately, when I see someone in trouble
or an injustice, though I desperately attempt to look the other way or keep my
mouth shut, I simply can’t. It’s un-Renae like.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">What happened today is not meant to share a heroic deed…no
it is not – it is to tell you that we can all, in choosing to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> look the other way, make a
difference, or save a life, or even, the life of a dog. We are all in this together.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I was simply going into the grocery store for a carton of milk, when
I noticed an elderly woman park her car next to mine and roll her window down
a few inches before going into the store.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This would have been ordinary except, she left her dog…in the car…on a
hot day. Granted it is only 80 degrees outside, but it is well over 100 degrees in a car
and dogs don’t have sweat glands and are covered in fur; a known recipe for a
quick death or brain damage for any animal.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I didn’t know what to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In my mind I was running toward her yelling “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hey lady, you can’t leave your dog in the car! It’s too hot out!</i>”
But my mouth wasn’t moving. “What if she yells at me and we get into a
screaming match in front of Luckys? What if she’s just running in and out for
two minutes and her dog really isn’t in danger? What if…”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked at my watch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>11:30 a.m.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Too hot for a dog….in a car…on a hot day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I decided to give it five minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>11:35 a.m.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>hotter yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I reluctantly called
911, was put into the Sherriff’s emergency line, who transferred me to San
Ramon emergency, who informed me this wasn’t the right number to be calling,
who then transferred me to Animal Control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Maam it’s only been five minutes.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was losing my cool, in more ways then one, although now it had been
ten minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too hot for a dog in a car,
windows down or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you </i>sat in a car for five minutes in
this heat?” I pleaded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well I can send
a patrol car out but I need your name and number and it is going to take them a
while to get there and she will probably be gone by then.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I responded with “Just forget it, I’ll take
care of it myself.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The minutes were
ticking by quickly and much too fast for a dog in a car. I went into true Renae
mode of jumping into the fire when no one else will; a mode I’m not sure I
like, but sometimes serves a greater purpose. I walked into the store, and to
my relief there was a fireman in full uniform.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I rushed towards him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Sorry, he
said, but I’ll have to put in a call to dispatch and you will get the same
result as if you had called it in yourself.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My fantasy of him rushing out to the car with a superman cape, yanking
the locked door open and rescuing this little dog was quickly dosed with
reality. If I don’t handle it, no one else will.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Who would have thought rescuing an animal from a car would
be so difficult?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And should I really be
involved? Yes, I should! Someone has to be!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I spotted the woman standing in line at the check-out, hunched
over her cart, looking sweet as could be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I took a deep breath and decided to handle this with…love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Maam” I said gently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s really hot outside and you left your
dog in the car.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I rolled the window
down” she said, flustered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s still
too hot, even with the window down, I said softly, not wanting to put her on
the defensive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is hard for anyone to
not be put on the defensive when they are approached with the criticism of a
stranger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She left her cart standing
there and began to walk towards the front doors of the store, obviously annoyed with me. “Maybe you could leave the
dog home next time” I begged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I
always take him in my car and it’s never a problem!” she replied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But it’s much hotter in a car for a dog
because they have fur” I tried to explain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But she cut me off at the pass and said, what I would expect of anyone
who thinks it’s no big deal to leave a dog in a car for a few minutes on a hot
day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I only left him for three minutes!”
I pulled out my phone, looked at the time and said “Actually, it’s 11:42. You
left him in the car at 11:30.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know you
must love your dog, and you probably don’t know, but twelve minutes is too long…for
a dog…in a car…on a hot day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I didn’t want this to end this way, not with me ruining an
old woman’s day. I had that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that I had offended
and embarrassed a woman who truly did not know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All I was trying to do was help, and then the idea struck...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“You go get your groceries and let me watch your dog outside”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I said. </span>She looked at me with
distrust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Really, I can watch your dog
and you can go in and take your time. It's no problem.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You aren’t going to
hurt my dog are you?” she asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Maam, I’m a dog lover or I never would have gone to this
extreme, and you need groceries, and I have time.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And so, I stood in front of the store, in the shade, with
her lovely little dog and when the woman came out of the store she appeared overjoyed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told her there
are a lot of dog lovers in the world that can help her…but you simply can’t
leave a dog….in a car….on a hot day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Then I gave her a hug and whispered in her ear, “It's okay, we are all
in this together.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">She was delighted, I was relieved, and her dog was happy.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">On that note, please, please, please don't mind your own business. Say something if you see a dog in a car on a hot day. We <em>all </em>have the power to make a difference. I figure if I truly am out of line, I can always apologize later, but I can never take that moment back to make a difference, if only in the life of a dog. We are all in this...together.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Sweet Dreams and Always GOOD Dreams,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">~Renae~</span></div>
</div>renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-65653972244029233682012-06-22T11:36:00.001-07:002012-06-22T13:13:25.188-07:00PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Renae Wilber</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">San Ramon, California</span><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">June 21, 2012</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dear Anthem Blue Cross:</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I know our relationship must be very difficult for you now that I have
been diagnosed with cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I apologize,
as it is never fun to have the rug pulled out from under you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For over 15 years, I was predictable, which
made for a good relationship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I paid my
premiums every month, on time and I seldom asked anything of you in
return.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I even exercised regularly and
never smoked, just as you wished for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
was healthy, and you were happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never
complained even though each year without fail, you raised my rates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At one point, I was paying over $430 per
month just to be with you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some months I
had to choose between you and extra food on the table, but you were always more
important to me.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As the years went by I became weary and struggled to keep you in my
life, so I chose the only option I felt I had which was to minimize my payments
to you, ultimately maximizing my own debt, should God forbid I fall ill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You reduced my payment to $250 per month, and
I in turn accepted an $8,900 deductible per year. We had an agreement.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Last year, the cancer struck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
was scared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t know if I would
live, or die, or how I would pay my bills or keep you in my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You say you are there, I hear your
advertisements, and I believe you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But today I found out, you are not, and you have never been.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am saddened, yet like a person stuck in an
abusive relationship, I cannot let you go for fear of a future without hope
that I might need you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am dependant on
you, yet I do not trust you.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Today I received your denial of a wig I purchased in the amount of
$40.24.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wig is in cancer lingo known
as a “scalp prosthesis” and I am allowed, in my relationship with you, to
purchase up to $400 worth of wigs for medical purposes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I know that to some, that may seem like a
lot of money, but after I realized that the average wig runs $250, I decided to
purchase “cheap” wigs and be thrifty with your money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately, none of your providers of
prosthetics even carry wigs, and so you kindly told me I could go anywhere out of your providers to
purchase them and receive full reimbursement, and so I did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I trusted you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today, you changed your mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You told me $40.24 was an unreasonable
expense for a scalp prosthesis and that I went to a non-provider so you would not
pay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I waited two months for
reimbursement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You say one thing, and
you do another, and I am left saddened by our relationship.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You also have a “nurse” that calls me every week to check on me, for my
good of course; that’s what you say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
if you really cared, why did you wait until I met my $8,900 deductible to have
her care enough to call?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why? After all
I have been through, she never seems to remember if I have gone through chemo,
or radiation, or surgery, and I have to refresh her memory every time, yet I am
supposed to trust that she is calling because you care.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> She continuously asks me questions that I have already answered, like whether I've had cancer before or if my mother has ever had cancer. S</span>he wants me to share
all of my experiences through this hell with her as<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hear her taking notes through the phone, and yet she never seems to remember during the next conversation. Are
you trying to find a reason to get rid of me, now that I am no longer a young,
vibrant girl in good health?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I do not sleep well at night dear Anthem, because I have always been
there for you, and now it’s your turn and I see you wanting to turn your back
on me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought we had a
commitment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought you cared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please don’t drop me Anthem, I’ve been good
to you and now, it’s your turn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Health
insurance was not supposed to be this way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>The good news is, I will not drop you Anthem, even if I have to scrape
to keep you in my life, because for me there simply is no other way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sincerely,</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Renae Wilber</span>
</div>
</div>renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-39665330823084736602012-06-08T22:59:00.002-07:002012-06-08T23:12:58.903-07:00THE DAY I MET MY ALIAS<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFGrggdMbkhDkVXKt5-M8yeOE2bR486a2mdwbakaZp93eRMiHmfbrHerN3Zvkx1X5EJiBHCXawAJHhTEPC_6wyJfGNQE4Q8BJ05u0z8sv8KG_ZBz2jFRD2W3G2PkaSKJtaeM7uGgGN4-ws/s1600/imagesCA1TO6ZJ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFGrggdMbkhDkVXKt5-M8yeOE2bR486a2mdwbakaZp93eRMiHmfbrHerN3Zvkx1X5EJiBHCXawAJHhTEPC_6wyJfGNQE4Q8BJ05u0z8sv8KG_ZBz2jFRD2W3G2PkaSKJtaeM7uGgGN4-ws/s320/imagesCA1TO6ZJ.jpg" width="203" /></a>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Her name was Page.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t tell her my secret desire to change
my name to Page; not at first anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
had just met in the dog park, me with my dogs Bailey and Lilly, and she with
her dog, Prada; a likely name for a dog whose owner held the coolest girl’s name,
ever.</span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">My obsession began with a
co-worker when I was 14, while serving ice-cream and popcorn at Andy’s
Carmel Corn in the Sears mall in Anchorage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was blond with freckles, older than I, and amazingly cool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was when I decided that I wanted her
name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Years later while watching Extreme
Makeover: Home Edition, my theory was reinforced when I was introduced to Paige
Hemmis, one of the show’s designers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cool,
funny, pretty, spunky, and witty, I was again convinced that the coolest of the
cool chicks had one thing in common, they all had the name Paige, or Page, no matter the
spelling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only Paige Hemmis had her own
hot pink hard hat, which elevated her to “Super Cool” in my eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so I made my decision. I too would become
a Page. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUILQMO3mhZFPFrWJvmnQjRx8fUVmczxaeaFtCEEmtduf24oN4tyC3j4WHmU0ughphy5X-cEGKygA1M3XHWL70spHVh13TQh5Q8hTWbYvZkYRWQnD-JkhO0rZKlUvqGQrsxUpIma0-XDiT/s1600/imagesCA0WJLUZ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUILQMO3mhZFPFrWJvmnQjRx8fUVmczxaeaFtCEEmtduf24oN4tyC3j4WHmU0ughphy5X-cEGKygA1M3XHWL70spHVh13TQh5Q8hTWbYvZkYRWQnD-JkhO0rZKlUvqGQrsxUpIma0-XDiT/s1600/imagesCA0WJLUZ.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Around that time I began
conjuring up a reading program for children in underserved communities while
simultaneously working on my library credentials.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spent hours daydreaming about the perfect
program which would bring out the passion for books and a desire to
read in children from a very young age. I would inspire them with wit, and music, and bring to life the characters on the page through my imaginative reading style. My "stage" name would be Page.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Page Turner. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> "How appropriate" I thought. </span>I started using my new name in little ways, sometimes while joking at the library, and other times for things like when when I signed up for Yelp…and let me
mention that if you are <em>ever</em> going to slam a restaurant, do it under an alias
in case you ever have to go back there to eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>To this day I am Yelp critic "Page Turner of San Ramon." <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> yuk yuk yuk.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">But let’s go back to the
dog park, just yesterday, where I found myself engrossed in conversation about
life and college and child psychology, with a really cool girl with a dog Prada,
who by the way, had a hot pink harness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
was talking about something pertinent, but all I heard was ”…and so my mom said
‘Hey Page’…”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> and </span>she continued.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Oh my GOD, did she just say her name is
Page?” I wondered, not hearing a word she said after that. Unfortunately, at
that <em>very</em> second Lillian decided to poop on the other side of the dog park
leaving me running to scoop it up just as I was getting ready to exclaim my ultimate
desire to also be a Page. I barely got the poop bag in the garbage can when, not being able to contain myself any longer I excitedly
blurted out while still half way across the dog park, "<em>Oh my God I LOVE YOUR
NAME!</em>” At that she laughed, threw her head back with style that only a Page would have and said, “Oh
not me, I <em>hate</em> my name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you know what
my last name is?”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“No” I replied, thinking
wouldn’t that be funny if…</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“….Turner.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She replied. “Page Turner.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">And at that, knowing San Ramon is much too small for two Page Turners, I decided I had no choice but to keep....my real name. I hear Renae is a pretty cool chick too; and <em>that's </em>the good news, until next time...</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Sweet Dreams And Always
GOOD Dreams,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">~Renae~ </span></div>
</div>
</div>renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-28169054818392071082012-05-23T22:15:00.001-07:002012-05-23T22:24:02.171-07:00FOR THE LOVE OF BENNI<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE5SDjqoTHpdv9amfmbg7CjJ2fzTWKDrc1M3ARDfRE9NJ0k_1Mhs6KYLMW-SHO6fm66RbWk3aDSCNugb4Fc5Sp64vqJ1Pf_B-JNAyS7nSqCX0PRhJNhwvLKjGKRbGQHJm8NSn6Em2NtYGI/s1600/Benni.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE5SDjqoTHpdv9amfmbg7CjJ2fzTWKDrc1M3ARDfRE9NJ0k_1Mhs6KYLMW-SHO6fm66RbWk3aDSCNugb4Fc5Sp64vqJ1Pf_B-JNAyS7nSqCX0PRhJNhwvLKjGKRbGQHJm8NSn6Em2NtYGI/s320/Benni.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">He was found in the engine of a car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That
is as far back as I know his story.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Our lives became
intertwined the day I went to visit Julie, a friend from high school, a cat
lover, and the founder of Outcast Cat Help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My desire was only to visit my old friend, as through thick and thin
Alaskans like to stick together, even when we have ventured some 3,000 miles
away from home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I only had a short time
to stop and say hello, exchange hugs and a few laughs, and admire Julie’s work
with abandoned cats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was running her
weekly adoption fair at the Danville Pet Food Express, and I was an innocent
bystander. Really, I was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had no
intention of holding a cat, much less signing adoption papers some two hours
later, but Julie has a way of making people fall in love when they are least
expecting it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All she had to say was
“Here, why don’t you hold this cat for a minute” and not long after I said “I
do.” </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Here was the dilemma -- I didn’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">need </i>a cat, and my dogs certainly wouldn't <em>want </em>a cat. I have two
Beagles….but Richard, my better half, well he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">needed </i>a cat, even if he didn’t know it at the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> He did. </span>My advice is and has always been to never,
ever, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever </i>surprise anyone with an animal; that is just a recipe for
disaster. But Julie--did I mention she has a way of making you fall in
love?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She knows well how to break
through all rules, inhibitions, logic, and common sense, and she knows a good
match when she sees one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was not
forewarned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On that particular day, at
that particular time, I was weak, maybe I didn’t have enough sleep the night
before, maybe I hadn’t eaten breakfast, but regardless, I walked out with
Benni.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ben Ben. Benjamin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or as I often exclaim to him in a high
pitched voice when I want his attention “Beeeeennnnnnnn.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I didn’t exactly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pick</i> Benni for Richard, Julie did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She suggested that Benni would be perfect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She knows Richard well, that he is an introvert,
kind, quiet, loving and alone a lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So
was Benni.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If Richard was reincarnated
as a cat, I have no doubt, he would in fact come back as Benni’s double.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so, though I don’t know the beginning of Benni’s
story, I know the beginning of our story. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Richard, let’s sleep in
the trailer tonight” I exclaimed over the telephone.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Why?” He asked, puzzled.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Because it’s a nice night
to sleep in the trailer and it would be fun for the three of us” (knowing
that Benni would have less anxiety starting out in a small space).</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"The three of us?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“You, me, and Benni!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Who’s Benni?????”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And that's how it all began. As most happy pet
stories go, Richard and Benni are now part of the same family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Benni eats the best food and poops in the
most expensive kitty litter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unlike me
with my Beagles, Richard knows <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">exactly </i>how
many calories, and I mean down to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the calorie
</i>that Benni is supposed to consume each day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He has also become expert in making cat meows, in an almost creepy kind
of “babe, seriously you're freaking me out" kind of way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
turn, when Richard isn’t with me, he has a loving companion to sleep on his
head at night, and when Richard has to go out of town, Benni gets to sleep on
my head at night, to the annoyance of my jealous dogs Bailey and Lilly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For this reason, we did not mention to the
dogs that Benni’s <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>adorable face hangs
proudly on the wall, on an over-sized supermodel pet billboard at the Danville
Pet Food Express, thanks to an anonymous donor, the proceeds of which were
donated to Julie’s organization, Outcast Cat Help.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The good news IS Benni
has a loving home, Richard is happy, I am happy, and Julie….well if you ever
run into her and she starts to place a cat in your lap, you have had sufficient
warning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She will make you fall in love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know we have.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Sweet Dreams And Always GOOD Dreams,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">~Renae~</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixh6r8_TbF1FWdb5ooi5JkqWDB_ouaxgqx-ene9yjCtAcBIBfqmxM-ezkmwRJbconTk3oVA-p-OQUL7OQJy2fpajxQ8ggn9b9gNFWYi4lSIokQhI_WUt_pjc9VTvYttXrcIKnHyWlIStoB/s1600/Ben+Ben.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixh6r8_TbF1FWdb5ooi5JkqWDB_ouaxgqx-ene9yjCtAcBIBfqmxM-ezkmwRJbconTk3oVA-p-OQUL7OQJy2fpajxQ8ggn9b9gNFWYi4lSIokQhI_WUt_pjc9VTvYttXrcIKnHyWlIStoB/s1600/Ben+Ben.jpeg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
(Bennie watching cat videos)</div>
</div>
</div>renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-87471300092822638072012-05-17T19:07:00.001-07:002012-05-17T20:14:45.214-07:00THE LAST DANCE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg41HBPzUd45dJXB4xRDchH23QGx9G7c88nkiU9_yJm1g9CyLYNunCdHaKr91dI5Y_Vk66eJu_MBBQp7MjwMJse6HOzx5gvQ8vJZkkBZOfBo1RMmg7H8DGTs5EjIMv1RilyT9OWYxIemGCU/s1600/Disco+Queen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg41HBPzUd45dJXB4xRDchH23QGx9G7c88nkiU9_yJm1g9CyLYNunCdHaKr91dI5Y_Vk66eJu_MBBQp7MjwMJse6HOzx5gvQ8vJZkkBZOfBo1RMmg7H8DGTs5EjIMv1RilyT9OWYxIemGCU/s320/Disco+Queen.jpg" width="160" /></a></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Today is a very sad day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was driving my daily commute to my radiation
treatment this morning and heard the breaking news alert that Donna Summer had
died. “Please don’t let it be breast cancer, please don’t let it be breast
cancer….” That’s what my brain was thinking, over and over and over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I changed the station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Donna Summer has died of breast cancer at
the age of 63.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a moment, I drove solemnly,
unable to process both that my teenage disco queen…the one whose music I had spent
countless hours to, in the living room of my house, while choreographing dance moves for my P.E. class had not only died, but died of the same disease I was driving
the long commute to treat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bastard
breast cancer.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I drove west on the 580,
bumper-to-bumper in morning traffic, sobbing uncontrollably.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t purely unselfish, it was for the
loss of a part of my past, an era, that Donna Summer represented, and for my
own fear of dying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I texted a friend,
breaking one of my cardinal rules of no-texting while driving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Are you okay?” He asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No. I don’t want to die” was all I could
reply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well then stop texting and
driving" he responded, bringing a small smile to my face as I wiped off the
tears.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The reality of my own
mortality was again staring at me, screaming loudly, “If Donna Summer can die
of breast cancer, then so can you!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Didn't </span>she have all the money that anyone could possibly have for the best treatments and her own
personal researchers to fight this disease? So how was it that cancer could take her?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My thought process was indeed selfish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><em>My</em> loss, <em>my</em> pain, <em>my</em> grief, <em>my</em> fears.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Sometimes I see people
looking at me with that same thought process, fearing that my disease could one
day be their reality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is human
nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<em>How did you get it?”</em> I’ve been
asked, knowing they are seeking reassurance that it couldn't happen to them...that, phew, they haven't followed the same recipe
for disaster in their own lives, and have managed to circumvent any possibility of being diagnosed with cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
too panicked, and immediately wanted to find out what made Donna Summer's breast cancer different than mine,
to separate myself from her disease, to reassure myself that I won't die, like she did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Did she drink too much Coke? Eat too many processed foods?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> "<em>The second I get home from radiation I will Google her and find out where she went wrong, and I will continue to eat my vegetables, I promise."</em> </span>Bargaining is part of grief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Unfortunately, t</span>here is no full-proof recipe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life is a crap shoot. It doesn't matter who you are. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">But there I was, playing
Russian Roulette upon hearing the news, texting while driving on the freeways,
looking for reassurance that I would not die and just then a long yellow school
bus drove next to my car, with the innocent looks of young children whose faces were smashed up against the windows smiling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I could see myself in their faces...innocently seeing the world through
the eyes of a child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I want to live
like that again!” I thought.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Driving home I realized
how self-centered my thought process had been.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“I don’t want to die.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s the
truth of the matter, I don’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Donna’s
death had reminded me of the inevitability of life, and yet, the adult version
of myself was ashamed that I allowed her loss to be about me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a compromise I decided that I would
not allow her loss to be in vein.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I think of her, or sing at the top of my
lungs in the car like the Disco Queen that I always thought I was in the 70’s,
thanks to Donna's egging me on with her high notes and gut wrenching emotion, I will remember to live.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is how
best any of us can honor her now that she is gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Live for the moment, like an innocent child
smiling through the school bus window, excited to greet the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in that thought I remembered a quote I
heard not too long ago.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“When you are afraid to
die, it is because you have a life worth living.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Rest in peace Donna. You
brought greatness to music. You made a difference. You are part of an era we will never forget.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Sweet Dreams And Always
GOOD Dreams,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">~Renae~</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span></div>
</div>renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-60769695737281646492012-05-11T16:52:00.000-07:002012-05-11T17:03:31.258-07:00BALD IS THE NEW BEAUTIFUL<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbGkLSmWmnP7hSZszAUAdnjk-3847hGliumI_qzybm_XacvhTh3ksPgWjY5gE9RwV30EemeIDNby4lJyGtzake26vIAqUcKQ3JvvdCZ8HmX_F2jAjrtnb_0zV-YdUzFxvXn31r5dmMfFtp/s1600/bald.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbGkLSmWmnP7hSZszAUAdnjk-3847hGliumI_qzybm_XacvhTh3ksPgWjY5gE9RwV30EemeIDNby4lJyGtzake26vIAqUcKQ3JvvdCZ8HmX_F2jAjrtnb_0zV-YdUzFxvXn31r5dmMfFtp/s320/bald.jpg" width="232" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Just in case you haven’t
gotten the memo yet, just as 40 is the new 30, and green is the new black, <em><strong>bald
is the new beautiful!</strong></em> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">This is my shout
out to all women who have lost their hair to cancer. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">On November 8, 2011 when
I listened to my primary physician’s message after he received the pathology report
from my biopsy, ”<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I need to see you in my
office right away so we can make some arrangements,</i>” my first thought after
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh my God I have cancer and I’m going to
die!</i>” was “Oh my God <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m going to lose my hair!</i>”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Death. Hair loss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hair loss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Death. Hair loss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If that isn’t a messed up thought process,
then I don’t know what is.</span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">It’s fair to say that I’ve
been a little stuck on the hair thing lately, but there’s a good reason. Women
aren’t allowed to be bald, not according to the unspoken world of glamour, unless of course they are a super model, which most of us are not. In
fact, I haven’t seen a bald chick on the cover of a magazine since Britney was mocked
on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The National Enquirer</i> and Demi
Moore shaved her head for G.I. Jane in 1997.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hence, the average priced wig runs anywhere from $200 - $700.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why? Because we are made to feel <em>ugly</em> without
our hair. Consequently, there is a growing market for wigs amongst female cancer patients. I do think a lot of wigs are downright hot and sassy, but unfortunately, there are also a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lot
</i>and I mean a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lot </i>of women losing
their hair to cancer because cancer is a disconcerting epidemic in this Country and
the <em>last</em> thing we should have to worry about during a crisis is the stigma of being bald when we are thrust into the shocking face-to-face reality of our own mortality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously people, it’s time to
say <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“enough.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>So here I am leading a one woman charge
to make our baldness a statement of courage, strength, a badge of honor….a fashion
statement if you will because “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’ve had
enough and I’m not going to take it anymore!</i>” I think that’s a quote from a
movie by the way but my memory cells have been depleted so don’t ask me which movie.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Anyway, fast forward to this
bald epiphany, which I first experienced last week while I was taking my walk because
exercise is good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Exercise is good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Exercise is good (if I repeat it enough
times, I might believe it), and suddenly without warning, a chemo induced menopausal hot flash
took over just as multiple cars were driving by me in a hurry to get home from
work, or somewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Reluctantly, </span>I did almost the equivalent
of what I did yesterday on the side of the freeway on my commute to my radiation
treatment when I could no longer hold my bladder and there were only bushes in site; I pulled off my hat. Yes, I did. Hoping for a reprieve from the hot flash, exposing my bald head to the many of my traffic hour victims, I commited the worst of all fashion faux pas. I'm not sure which act was worse, what I did on the side of the freeway, or exposing my bald head, but it was truly liberating to
just not care!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, (there's more!) I pulled off my t-shirt exposing
my black tank top (aka beater) and you are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i> going to believe what happened, not in a million years. Nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing at all happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one cared. No sirens went off, the fashion
police didn’t stop me, and with the exception of one man who maybe sort of gave
me a look of “shaved head hoodlums in black beaters moving into the
neighborhood” – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">IT DIDN’T MATTER!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The next day, I confidently
ran errands sans hair, or wig, hat, or scarf, with the exception of my new growth of porcupine sprouts,
some black, some gray, closely beginning to resemble a Chia pet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People were actually smiling at me, and it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wasn’t </i>that look of pity that I get when I
wear a cancer scarf, it was that “You GO Sister!” look of admiration from others that I was shouting out to the world
that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bald is Beautiful</i> and we don’t
have to wear no stinkin’ scarf to cover our God given heads if we don’t want
to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No ladies, repeat after me… <strong>“</strong><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><strong>BALD
IS BEAUTIFUL.” </strong>Helllloooo Glamour Magazine, are you listening????</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Recently, I was having a profound conversation with my cousin about life and cancer, which she gets because she has experienced both...and she touched on something really profound. Something about designer clothes, handbags, high
heels, manicures, oh they are pretty alright, but they don’t make us real. Being
stripped of everything material and still being okay with ourselves….that’s what makes us
real.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Which reminds me of a
quote from one of my favorite children’s stories…</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>"Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand... once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always.” </em> ― </span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/83846.Margery_Williams"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Margery Williams</span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">, <i><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/1602074">The Velveteen Rabbit or How Toys Become Real</a></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Thank you for making me real.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Sweet Dreams and Always GOOD Dreams,</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Georgia;">~Renae~</span></em></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUg6qQ_ee_in1u_QuxRDRSAE8GrGTboT4KB4YpeqJIMdVDOIbwvrwgWfqzC7ihvLGrrdRqwQx1LRiTB56ImPRmQNu9TNyYG1LrfVVvKfDqmcYfvN3FSKq-Z7HYbtJBISHTa01Zlylh9Jyu/s1600/Renae.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUg6qQ_ee_in1u_QuxRDRSAE8GrGTboT4KB4YpeqJIMdVDOIbwvrwgWfqzC7ihvLGrrdRqwQx1LRiTB56ImPRmQNu9TNyYG1LrfVVvKfDqmcYfvN3FSKq-Z7HYbtJBISHTa01Zlylh9Jyu/s320/Renae.jpg" width="261" /></a></div>
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</div>renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-21784948179124027202012-05-01T23:50:00.001-07:002012-05-01T23:50:59.302-07:00THE EBB AND THE FLOW<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrs-lq1xHlyLCCYFpNghChuP56Bmmm-RNNHt12uPPmX_6dy1yUobqeA-0AkwUaTKfStpXVFcrlMr_zjYo7kRCyu6p9wH_-Iq_qJT2O3NB3X5USMjWS-8-QvDZi0JjcwaItipFGMc8xNXer/s1600/securedownload%255B6%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrs-lq1xHlyLCCYFpNghChuP56Bmmm-RNNHt12uPPmX_6dy1yUobqeA-0AkwUaTKfStpXVFcrlMr_zjYo7kRCyu6p9wH_-Iq_qJT2O3NB3X5USMjWS-8-QvDZi0JjcwaItipFGMc8xNXer/s320/securedownload%255B6%255D.jpg" width="203" /></a></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Its </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">hard to believe that just three weeks ago I was hooked up to two IV's, simultaneously being pumped with someone else's blood (thank you blood donors) and antibiotics while severely ill in the hospital, and yet today I spent two hours singing and getting my cardio on while mowing my lawn. Can you say <em>push lawnmower? </em></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Okay, the fact that I only finished <em>half</em> the lawn and my lawn is not that big has nothing to do with my physical health....that's more of an OCD lawn issue I am working on which perhaps I will one day share. As for now, I am much more comfortable sharing pictures of my bald head then telling you about my personal hangups. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">So while I was mowing the lawn (which is very therapeutic fyi) I had a lot of time to think about...life...and how one moment, that moment when we feel we will never make it through to see the light at the end of the tunnel, when it all seems so overwhelming that we actually consider the weight of the burden to be more than we can bear, suddenly turns into another moment...that moment when we are laughing again. Yes laughing again, and everything is right with the world. Only three weeks ago I was close to ready to give up, and today I am back and ready to conquer. Funny how life is.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Pain, grief, disbelief, illness, fear, it's there and it's real and it serves to remind me of how vulnerable I really am, even when I fantasize that I'm Wonder Woman. I am not. I will be honest with you. Prior to going to emergency after my third round of chemo, I tried to negotiate in the middle of the night with the on-call physician, while burning up with a neutropenic fever. I begged him to let me stay home, hoping I would feel better in the morning, knowing I could have died during the night. Not my proudest moment, but that's how much I <em>didn't</em> want to go to the hospital yet again and have blood taken and IV's in my arm, and six inch Qtips stuck up my nose for whatever samples they were going to take. I even did the unthinkable. I took Tylenol with Codeine and a few Ibuprofin to try to drop the fever so I could convince myself that I was fine, but a dropped fever doesn't elevate the white blood cell count, it only tricks your body into thinking you are fine. I wasn't. Finally, I came to my senses knowing my options were less than none, but then again on the way to the emergency room I cried like a two year old having a tantrum while Richard stayed stoic driving as quickly yet as safely as he could get me there. I bellowed "<em>I don't waaaaaannnnnnttttt to go!!!!</em> <em>I caannnn't do this!"</em> as he drove silently and patiently holding my hand, allowing me my breakdown. When we got to emergency, it was worse then I thought, and yes, I had visions of just leaving -- walking out of the hospital because I couldn't take one more needle, and to top it off I was dry heaving. I was so ill, they admitted me (I begged them not to) to the cancer ward of the hospital on EASTER WEEKEND, quarantined me like a rabid dog and stuck a big hot pink sign on the door of my room to warn anyone that entered not to bring in germs. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I am not sharing this to tell you how miserable I was (but if you want to feel sorry for me ever, this would be the time), but to share with you the amazing thing about life...it changes. It ebbs and it flows and just when we think we can't take another minute of suffering, the sun comes out again...and again....and again....</span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Sometimes, just knowing that, is enough to keep me going. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">My prayer to God and the Universe is that during your darkest moments you will hold on to that thought because one of the greatest beauties of life is that it changes. It shakes us to the core and then, maybe not today, or tomorrow, or as quickly as we'd like, but just as sure as the flowers will bloom again and the baby birds will sing, eventually the clouds will pass and we <em>will</em> breathe again. Yes, we will.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I have proof of that, if only in my half-mowed lawn...</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Keep the faith, always.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Sweet Dreams and Always GOOD Dreams,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">~Renae~</span></div>
</div>renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-22517902104905947852012-03-17T12:57:00.005-07:002012-03-17T13:09:32.900-07:00WE MAKE PLANS AND THE UNIVERSE LAUGHS<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmawcakDNOwOJEhGtDDivu0kckBb5PY-Uiu9oUhc6yrPVP4ZAPWcPV7AyvwTgfL9pN-OR-ZVZb9UYH9mUGvg_wazxijTrKqDP9St5AVTJiWXwlLe-OnxLZGc00FPqbL0Wf_YecdHFvdjtX/s1600/117.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmawcakDNOwOJEhGtDDivu0kckBb5PY-Uiu9oUhc6yrPVP4ZAPWcPV7AyvwTgfL9pN-OR-ZVZb9UYH9mUGvg_wazxijTrKqDP9St5AVTJiWXwlLe-OnxLZGc00FPqbL0Wf_YecdHFvdjtX/s320/117.JPG" width="229" /></a></div>I had it all figured out. I was going to make a "Power to the Women of Cancer" video. I do that a lot; I direct movies in my own mind. They always start with a victim and end with a song like the theme to Rocky. But this one would be spectacular, I was going to strut into Supercuts and have my head shaved since my hair had started to fall out. I would be dressed to kill, with over sized hoop earrings, a black choker, and leather boots. Lots of smokey grey eye shadow. I would strut in, say "Just do it!" and strut out like a woman in control of her life. "Bad to the Bone" would be playing as I strutted out of Supercuts. I even bought the video camera for the event, and put a call into George Thorogood's agent for permission to use the song (he didn't return the call).<br />
<br />
But it didn't happen that way. Instead, I woke up in the middle of the night breathing in fallen strands of hair that had landed onto my pillow. I took a shower, and all I can tell you without too much detail, was that it was as though I was the star of my own horror flick. I literally began to gag and dry heave. I called Supercuts and told them I was on my way. It was pouring rain out and I didn't have a chance to call my daughters who were going to go with me and be there when it was time to shave my head. I just ran out the door with my baseball cap on. I turned the car on. The radio came on with the one song I probably didn't want to hear at that moment..."<em>Celebrate, good times, c'mon! There's a party going on right here...a celebration, to last throughout the year.</em>" I quickly turned it off. My gas tank was below empty, but I didn't care, I took a chance on an empty tank and went without stopping. Thankfully, I got there and I only had to wait a few minutes. No one else was waiting, and there were no children in the salon, which is a good thing, because unlike the video in my mind, I was sobbing elephant tears. I was not strutting, nor feeling empowered.<br />
<br />
I sat in the chair and said "take it all off" to the stylist. I closed my eyes. I felt the electric razor with every stroke, the hair falling. I bit my bottom lip. "Wow!" She exclaimed, "You have a perfect head!" I was grateful for that comment. So very <em>very</em> grateful. I opened my eyes, and honestly, I look sort of like a martian, but not a scary martian, just a martian. She asked if she could give me a hug, and I was grateful for that too. I wasn't alone. I was relieved for the hug, and to have the haircut over with. <br />
<br />
That was it. In less than two minutes, I was bald. Still me. Just a bald me. Bad to the bone wasn't playing in the background. I didn't have my leather boots or my smokey grey eyeshadow on. But I strutted out nevertheless. Sometimes, that's all we can do.<br />
<br />
Sweet Dreams And Always GOOD Dreams,<br />
~Renae~<br />
<br />
p.s. ...And when you feel like you can't hold your head up, strut anyway.</div>renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-85042166084575282812012-03-13T11:02:00.000-07:002012-03-13T11:02:11.409-07:00THE TIME HAS COME, THE HAIR IS FALLING.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG-zXULHleHM3330BBIFRp1MoIBgzzBN-UepZGhA-vFYVuCvDL6udg2KNlHyHmCZ-pWboqVLRCOMfoCKeciTV-DEdaYSds6ryVx-q1WNWviPJkRyD4ApdA5I3pqL0XaS6Re23GioFoG9ql/s1600/mediahp_wonderwoman001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG-zXULHleHM3330BBIFRp1MoIBgzzBN-UepZGhA-vFYVuCvDL6udg2KNlHyHmCZ-pWboqVLRCOMfoCKeciTV-DEdaYSds6ryVx-q1WNWviPJkRyD4ApdA5I3pqL0XaS6Re23GioFoG9ql/s320/mediahp_wonderwoman001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">They said it would happen. They said like clockwork, between Day 12 and 14 after my first round of chemo. "They" being the support I find on breastcancer.org. "They" being the women that have gone before me, that have survived, that have died, that have fought this battle with a brave vengeance and a heroic attitude. "They" are my heroes. Most of them do not have textbook knowledge, but real world experience, and so I trust them.</span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Secretly, I thought maybe "they" were wrong. I thought just maybe, I could hang on to the hair. "No" they said. "Not with the AC treatments you are taking." The ounce of arrogance that had not yet been stripped away by needles and bruises, scalpels and unsightly hospital gowns, cocktails of poisons, nausea and headaches was hanging on for dear life. But this morning, there is no more arrogance. No room for anything but humility and compassion for myself, which took me years to learn. I am still me. I am still me.</span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Every day I counted down...."Eleven days to go, I still have my hair! Ten days to go! Nine days left!" Yesterday was Day 12. I still had my hair, although in my dreams, my eyelashes and eyebrows had fallen out, and I woke up, heart pounding and devastated. Embarrassed. Naked. But yesterday was different. I was cocky. Day 12 and nothing. No hair loss. "Look at me! Look at me! I might beat the odds!" As my wigs sit waiting patiently, beautifully really, on my dresser, side by side with pretty hats and sassy scarves, begging to be worn. But no, I am Wonder Woman! My superpowers prevail.</span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And yet, today, Day 13...just before writing this, a clump of hair falls onto the keyboard. I think it's a fluke. I think it can't be. I rub my hand through my hair, "One or two or even three or four don't count." But I get ten or twelve, and another, and another.</span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The women who have gone before me knew the truth all along. I wonder if they too fell in denial prior to their moment of truth; but I am no longer in denial. My time has come. And I will strut into Supercuts and I will hold my head high, and my favorite compassionate hair stylist will tell me it's okay. She'll tell me I'm beautiful. She'll shave it off and show me in the mirror how pretty I still look. And because I want to believe her, I will. And I will strut out with my dignity intact because, I am still me. I am STILL me. And Thank God for that.</span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sweet Dreams And Always GOOD Dreams,</span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">~Renae~</span></b></div></div>renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-76361741082307017092012-03-05T13:18:00.001-08:002012-03-05T13:27:44.480-08:00"DOGS DON'T HAVE FEELINGS"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGSQEIDZeY6XcsFdhgrwK_OZqzCF9S26xTZb8WPKJ8hgG5wMdxm5ZMAxb0cHpFJ5MhJ-0AAhOPOze9winT41LIF5yDseBgj9aTMa9J7bbJawyrAkk_ENzogMcQ6ZBB0MlAFDZLE4tfVBh0/s1600/untitled.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGSQEIDZeY6XcsFdhgrwK_OZqzCF9S26xTZb8WPKJ8hgG5wMdxm5ZMAxb0cHpFJ5MhJ-0AAhOPOze9winT41LIF5yDseBgj9aTMa9J7bbJawyrAkk_ENzogMcQ6ZBB0MlAFDZLE4tfVBh0/s1600/untitled.png" /></a></div>...and if that isn't the most ignorant statement I have ever heard in my 50 years on this planet, then the world is flat and we never really landed on the moon.<br />
<br />
Years ago (yes <em>way</em> pre-Richard) I was dating this rather cool guy...and then he opened his mouth and said "Dogs <i>don'</i>t have feelings." He wasn't joking. In less than a moment he went from being cool guy that I was really excited about dating to cold hearted ignoramus who I wasn't about to waste a moment on teaching the intense and rich love between humans and pets. I just know, lucky for Richard, he was quickly x'd off my "cool guy to date" list.<br />
<br />
As I write this, I would like to make note that my loyal Beagle Lilly is sitting a few feet away and staring at me. She often does, because, I am her human and she loves me. Sometimes it's a little eerie to feel her eyes lurking at a distance and have that feeling come over me that I'm being watched, but I look over and there she is, staring, as if she paid good money for this performance and she doesn't want to miss a beat. That's love.<br />
<br />
Let me tell you about Lilly. Lilly is the younger of the two Beagles. She is a female through and through. Recently, she learned that when I'm on the phone, there is actually a person on the other end; and I'm on the phone a <i>lot</i>. She's emotional and she's stubborn, and she likes to talk on the phone now that she's discovered this new social outlet available to her. So last night my mother called from 3000 miles away, and Lilly nudged the phone with her tail wagging and her eyes wide with exciteable pleading, "I want to talk! I want to talk!" My mother, being the compliant grandmother, spoke lovingly to her granddog on the telephone until Lilly was fully satisfied and appeased by the sound of grandma's voice, and then distracted into wanting to know who might be coming down the hallway. That's Lilly. <br />
<br />
Lilly sports a tattoo in her left ear because when she came to me, she had been used for scientific experimentation at a research lab and was little more than a number. Her voice box was cut out, her ear tattooed, and for almost two years she knew little outside the metal pen within the cement walls of the secured and gated borders that she shared with several other Beagles. I quickly learned this truth when she became entranced over the sound of the birds chirping in my back yard. I realized she had never seen a bird before.<br />
<br />
The first three days after I brought Lilly home, she paced, and she paced, and she paced with anxiety that I had never before witnessed. She wouldn't eat and she wouldn't drink, and so I hand fed her ice chips while she cowered as far back in her crate as possible in between her bouts of pacing. When she would finally eat from her bowl, she would grab one piece of dry food and run down the hall with it, protecting that piece of dry dog food for dear life. She had been, after all, in a kennel with several other research Beagles. I don't know how dire their circumstances were, but watching her with that one treasured piece of dog food as though it were her last, left me knowing that I could only guess how bad it must have been. Now Bailey, my older Beagle, would just look at her in the beginning like "I like to eat the <em>whole</em> bowl of food. Why doesn't <i>she </i>like to eat the <em>whole</em> bowl of food? Hmmm....maybe I should just squeeze on over here and finish up the laaaast of these morsels in her bowl....well will ya look at that! She left a <i>lot </i>of food there for me!" And then I would scream "<i>Bailey! Get OUT of LILLY'S DISH!" </i>Eventually, Lilly learned that her bowl was all for her, and Bailey learned that his bowl was all for him (not both bowls), and they respect that they each get an equal amount to eat; because dogs do know when one dog gets more than the other. That's a fact not up for debate.<br />
<br />
Once Lilly realized she was safe in my home, she had the temerity to exclaim that she would be sleeping on <i>my</i> bed at night. Little did she know (or care), that I don't allow dogs on my bed. If this is a repeat, I apologize, but after 18 jumps up onto the bed, one after the other, with me continuously putting her down, telling her "No Bed!" and thinking I would be darned if a dog was going to out stubborn the most stubborn girl I know...me!" Lilly won. I secretly admire that I have met my match. Although she used to sleep with her head on the pillow next to me, now, because she is nosey and social and I have a new and wonderful dog loving roommate, Lilly sleeps on the foot of the bed so as not to miss any excitement happening in the hallway when my roommate comes home.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
When I first got Bailey, my good friend Kirsten had met him at the tarmac at the San Francisco Airport with some 200 other animals. They had all come in from Hurricane Katrina. I was going to foster Bailey for two weeks....how many years ago was that? The first six months, Bailey would have obvious nightmares and make motions like he was fiercely dog paddling, trying to keep his head above water. After he learned that he was safe at home, his nightmares eventually subsided. He also learned that he preferred the couch in the living room to his dog bed next to my bed. I don't like dogs on the couch, for dog hair work clothes related purposes etc., but Bailey....well, he's getting old and the couch is probably much softer than his bed, and he's been such a <i>good </i>boy. So Bailey sleeps on the couch; which takes me back to dogs not having feelings.<br />
<br />
Dogs not only <em>have</em> feelings, they have feelings that can relate on a level to humans with every sense of their being, from non-verbal communication, to the scent of stress hormones when we are upset, to all the things that humans in our narcissistic busy lives don't pick up on from other humans. And this isn't only dogs, this is the part of the animal kingdom inclusive of every animal that we form a bond with that isn't too busy punching a clock to notice what really matters.<br />
<br />
I had a rough night last night. I tossed and turned, and coughed and cried. I had a headache that left me in fear that I was going to end up in emergency with a brain aneurysm. I hugged the toilet, to no avail. I took Tylenol and Ibuprofin, and coughed some more. I fell asleep and woke up with a lemon honey lozenge stuck to the inside of my cheek. I could have choked on it. But when I opened my eyes this morning, there was Lilly, not at the foot of the bed as she most recently prefers, but sitting so close to my side that there was no room for air in between, staring down at me in her usual way, only this time with her little forehead crinkled with immense worry projecting from every corner of her little eyes. As I turned my head to her and weakly said "Mornin' Lilly" in a barely audible shaky voice, Lilly pushed her face closer with obvious relief, and ever so gently kissed my cheek. <br />
<br />
I sat up in bed with my throbbing head in my hands, and as I looked down to my side, there was Bailey, not on the couch as he prefers, but fast asleep in his dog bed, ever so loyally guarding his post.<br />
<br />
Always Be Kind To The Animals,<br />
They Know More Than We Think.<br />
<br />
Sweet Dreams And Always GOOD Dreams,<br />
~Renae~</div>renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-20999163733734441552012-03-02T16:26:00.000-08:002012-03-02T16:26:10.958-08:00UNCONDITIONAL LOVE AND LIFE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbciNnID9KhnlGDgrcv94YAF92ZctzgskkildMeB7Hn0V8IY2ncy_pZJLMvosXIrydSN-5wdQGhzfTbA_Sln-3a8gTyvYjAIeags3oK7nqM23K6AGo4fTctLfaJAcW-cYOLkk6wZSNoo7f/s1600/Richard.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbciNnID9KhnlGDgrcv94YAF92ZctzgskkildMeB7Hn0V8IY2ncy_pZJLMvosXIrydSN-5wdQGhzfTbA_Sln-3a8gTyvYjAIeags3oK7nqM23K6AGo4fTctLfaJAcW-cYOLkk6wZSNoo7f/s320/Richard.bmp" width="218" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Two weeks is a long time. I've never spent so much time away from Richard since he left me after the third grade for the North Star Elementary late shift. Apparently, there were too many students in our school, so we were divided into "morning shift" and "late shift."</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>I think back now after chasing behind the school bus while watching my breath through the cold winter air and screaming "Wait! Wait!" that the school should have done a better job picking shifts. If I were admin. I would have done it differently. I would have looked at morning tardies, and stuck all the students with the highest number of tardies in the late shift....obviously, we have trouble getting out of bed in the morning; and the rest of the students would have been put in the morning shift. No such luck. In hindsight, maybe they wanted to punish us for being late.</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>And so, on days I missed the school bus for lack of not running fast enough to get the driver's attention while I could hear the door squeak to a close, I reluctantly trudged up the long icy hill, often times taking two steps up and sliding three steps back, until I caught a branch just strong enough to hold me to make it past the ice to a patch of dirt, and to the top of the hill. Years later someone got smart....they put steps in.</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>But after that year, when we were split into early and late shifts, it truly was all downhill with my intense love for Richard. In third grade, you don't have to talk, you just know you love each other. But he moved away, I moved away, and when we finally moved back we passed each other in the halls of West Anchorage High School (the best school like eveeeerrr) with a wave and a grin. The most we ever said was "Hi." As the story goes we serendipitously found each other five wonderful years ago, and to this day he still only says "Hi." I do all the talking. We have a wonderful relationship.</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Two weeks ago my Richard, or "Rick" as known to most of his friends, had to make an unexpected trip to Alaska to visit his mother. His mother had taken a fall and ended up in the hospital. Somehow, during that time, she also got a sudden onset of dementia. We are still trying to understand what happened. To Richard's heartache, in two weeks he had to move his mother into an assisted living facility, find someone to take her three cats, and clean out part of the condo which she owned and knew as home for over 15 years. This is tragic and devastating, especially since Richard is the only child and he already lost his father to cancer his senior year of high school.</strong></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_gJdpJai5kPyH2gnj2znjAUHIHj7kIb8eiDympg3br_HSI8uOT38fOBGsafVU_UbGJalvS0ZGW0VQ_LgSUwhH47yN5BvAn6Iej7jvLv4v1S9CTcsVGDBPLl-GGpKKjL1YRSk_fD3mrkfU/s1600/002.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_gJdpJai5kPyH2gnj2znjAUHIHj7kIb8eiDympg3br_HSI8uOT38fOBGsafVU_UbGJalvS0ZGW0VQ_LgSUwhH47yN5BvAn6Iej7jvLv4v1S9CTcsVGDBPLl-GGpKKjL1YRSk_fD3mrkfU/s320/002.bmp" width="320" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>For those of you that don't know, Dorothy and her late husband Royal adopted Richard when he was but a one and a half year old wild child crawling unsupervised through the streets of San Luis Obispo with a sign around his neck that said "Hi I'm Ricky, Feed Me." Dorothy, finding Rick irresistible and being a woman of strong will said "I'm adopting that child!" And the story of Rick's life and the unconditional love of his parents began.</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>But then at eight years of age he set his sights on me from across a crowded classroom, and well, you know the rest of the story.</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>In five years, I've never been away from Richard for more than one week. Even though we don't live together we are together constantly, if only on the phone, and yet, when he flies 3,000 miles away, I feel empty. </strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>I should have been there with him to hold his hand through his pain of losing his mother to not quite death, but something almost as painful, with Dorothy scratching her head in confusion as to not being able to quite place her "Rick" and Richard trying to cope with the inevitable pain of slowly losing our parents to old age. I should have been there to console him, and carry his burden, but I wasn't. As life would have it, bronchitis, doctor visits, and chemotherapy got in the way.</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>As the story goes, we are born, we live, and we die. But I see so much more. I see two parents who wanted enough on a wing and a prayer to adopt a little boy that they fell in love with at first site. And they did. I see a little boy that loved his parents so strongly that he would fly to Alaska at the drop of a hat, to rub his mother's head and hold her hand during her elderly years. I see a third grade boy that had me with the first tug of my long hair and owns my heart now with every bit of passion inside me.</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>A few days ago I said "You know what Richard? This is it." He said "This is what?" I said "We are growing old together. We're really doing it. Isn't it wonderful?"</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>And this thing called "life" is so much greater than the name we give it.</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Sweet </strong></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Dreams And Always GOOD Dreams,</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>~Renae~</strong></span></div>renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-6865761581645266232012-02-26T20:13:00.008-08:002012-02-26T20:49:35.768-08:00"IT'S JUST HAIR!"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXhftijs_TSSLCOcGLOFOUefBRk0zf9lgmUZGMXGelKsH9kbjApNrfPyhVi9_R_m65WTPPHpdt4fpmntUJ7F4_j3CcQshr6Z3Rritd1gdYqftMPRE8_YV1BinNaNYne1_9g5zRp3S5BBTT/s1600/Renae+Swimsuit.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXhftijs_TSSLCOcGLOFOUefBRk0zf9lgmUZGMXGelKsH9kbjApNrfPyhVi9_R_m65WTPPHpdt4fpmntUJ7F4_j3CcQshr6Z3Rritd1gdYqftMPRE8_YV1BinNaNYne1_9g5zRp3S5BBTT/s320/Renae+Swimsuit.bmp" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Posing for the National Enquirer</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Cut it before you lose it." That's just one piece of advice given to (pre)chemo patients before their hair falls out. Apparently, there is nothing worse than seeing long chunks of hair fall out of your own head knowing you are going to go bald. So, if you cut it short, at least you get short chunks instead of long chunks. And so, I cut it.</span></strong><br />
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div id="yiv1257246897yui_3_2_0_15_133030410690240"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I reluctantly picked up the phone and called the one person I trust dearly with my hair. I'd like to think that even though I've seen her only once every five months for the past year (that would be twice) when I've realized my hair has grown into horse hair, an unGodly site on a 50 year old, that she remembers me for my personality. Actually, I'm pretty sure that's not the case. I would in fact bet money that the first time I had her making these artistic movie star layers while I provided numerous pictures of models and celebrities, from Kim Kardashian to Eva Longoria for a $16.00 haircut at Supercuts, that it wasn't my charming personality she remembered me for. But she did such a great job of making me think I looked beautiful, if only for a moment, that I thought the paparazzi might actually be waiting outside, wanting to show the world on the front of the National Enquirer my celebrity status..."Depressed and Bankrupt Renae, Spotted At Dublin Supercuts! See pg. 5 for photos." Sigh...am I <em>ever</em> going to be on the front of the National Enquirer?? Please God, even for my cellulite, just once in my life. </span></strong><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">My avid followers know how I long for the day where I am somebody enough that I make the trashiest of tabloids. That, is when you know you've really made it.......... <em>big time.</em></span></strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEyHAKKuSOyACmJ1yzh4_pBo8RFlYrhmloKlvWpoz318gFK_SKtfpQGw8Al0anydcm9qInQyADzsrTO6rIODHUUvecZXjIAo8GsvN3cWPLJDd-z2vMF_El4WldG7a0WvUiNd3IirkXuemx/s1600/005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></a></div></div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" lda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEyHAKKuSOyACmJ1yzh4_pBo8RFlYrhmloKlvWpoz318gFK_SKtfpQGw8Al0anydcm9qInQyADzsrTO6rIODHUUvecZXjIAo8GsvN3cWPLJDd-z2vMF_El4WldG7a0WvUiNd3IirkXuemx/s200/005.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="150" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Posing Again for the National Enquirer</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">But on that particular day, no one was there but myself to admire the best haircut ever from a walk-in $16.00 experience. In appreciation of her skill and tolerance, I tipped her. In fact, I tipped her quite well. Not that I'm a math brain or anything, but a $20 tip is by my calculations 125%. That was over six months ago. Sadly, I think that's why she remembers me, if not for my expectation that she could make me look as stunning as a celebrity with a five minute haircut, but at least she knows I'm not cheap; and in my book, that's a good thing. Cheap haircut, good tipper, and all is right with the world.</span></strong></div></div></div><div id="yiv1257246897yui_3_2_0_15_133030410690240"><strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></strong></div><div id="yiv1257246897yui_3_2_0_15_133030410690240" style="right: auto;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So last week, in preparation of what was supposed to be my first treatment prior to getting broadsided with bronchitis, I called her up. "Hi, you probably don't remember me, but you cut my hair a while back. I'm Renae." I said. "Of course I remember you!" She responded enthusiastically. I didn't believe her. Then she said "How's the roommate working out?" Like, okay, she either has a photographic memory, or a little card under "R" that says "Ask Renae how the roommate is working out." Seriously, I can't remember someone I met a week ago, much less six months ago.</span></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"This is the thing..." I said. "I'm going to lose my hair to chemo, so I need you to chop it off shoulder length. I don't want to be pulling out big ol' chunks." I mean, what if I'm at the library and I hand a kid a book, and a two inch chunk of long hair gets tangled up with the book? That could actually happen you know. That's enough to leave a child running and screaming into their mother's arms while I stand in disbelief while sporting a big bald patch. I can't allow that to happen, and certainly not to a child. Although, that's not my worst fear. My worst fear is standing on my tippie toes while reaching to the top shelf for a book with my head tilted backwards and "thunk" the wig falls off exposing my bald head....in <em>front</em> of the few kids I've kicked <em>out</em> of the library. That would be the true depths of Karma hell. Obviously, I've put a lot of thought into this. Maybe <em>that's</em> why two of my specialists referred me to a psychiatrist. Really, they did.</span></strong></div><div id="yiv1257246897yui_3_2_0_15_133030410690240"><strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></strong></div><div id="yiv1257246897yui_3_2_0_15_133030410690240"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And so....my favorite hairdresser <em>ever</em> squeezed me in just before 9:00 p.m. when the shop was almost empty, just in case on the off-chance I started crying or having a full on meltdown. Not that I've <em>ever </em>cried <em>or </em>had a melt down, but just in case. I am proud to say, that I did neither. Not only was I a warrior on a mission, but this time, I gave her only <em>one</em> celebrity picture and was in full acceptance of reality that there were going to be no paparazzi waiting for me upon my exit, no cameras, no National Enquirer (~sniff sniff~).</span></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">This time I even gave her free reign. "Don't worry, I'm going to lose it all in three weeks anyway, just give it a quick cut. I don't care how it looks." Okay I did a little, but not really. She cut it off. I thanked her profusely and handed her a $10 tip (which is still more than 50%) and hoped she would remember me again the next time I call. Somewhere deep inside, I would like to think that she really does remember me for my personality, and on a good day I even think, "Well dangit, maybe she does."</span></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I look in the mirror, and I don't really look like myself with short hair, but it's not so bad. I know I'm still me. </span></strong><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">When I picked up Richard from the airport last night, he even said he <em>really really</em> liked it, and he emphasized the "<em>really."</em> Which is another reason why I love my Richard so much; because he loves me with long hair or short hair, and I dare to believe he'll even love me when my hair falls out. I really am such a lucky girl. And you know what? After chemo....</span></strong></div><div id="yiv1257246897yui_3_2_0_15_133030410690240"><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Hair grows back....</span></strong></div><div id="yiv1257246897yui_3_2_0_15_133030410690240"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" lda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiiqIAbO3A9eLnU2CZiycEnRtD0eNahaxpm5UsnCBOI2I6u7_N1Cj9lMzeWeSJ9EYORbZ_0ztF1lzWl4wNHlE4_OuxL9YlZnLYD7QuhBg4pddYeTDUme_zS3GwTTtq5MFwY-aI3_15PL1a/s200/Haircut3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="163" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pre-Chemo Haircut - That's Me!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Sweet Dreams and Always GOOD Dreams,</span></strong></div><div id="yiv1257246897yui_3_2_0_15_133030410690240" style="right: auto;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">~Renae~</span></strong></div></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div>renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-45701343645094423372012-02-24T13:34:00.002-08:002012-02-24T19:39:47.905-08:00BLISSFUL IGNORANCE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKDcsKNuCyUAdbgZ71pfNkOWY_7YY2nb8JzZoBbwhoAmt6nOWo4aDSzvlb1sTJGQDWZkXZyY70i5m3SYPCWfxtju68RDBQRYhyA3boe6INzGFbonHhGAO2Y1YVeks88pzBbl8zsg4GjK3O/s1600/illness.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKDcsKNuCyUAdbgZ71pfNkOWY_7YY2nb8JzZoBbwhoAmt6nOWo4aDSzvlb1sTJGQDWZkXZyY70i5m3SYPCWfxtju68RDBQRYhyA3boe6INzGFbonHhGAO2Y1YVeks88pzBbl8zsg4GjK3O/s320/illness.bmp" width="196" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"I dedicate this post to my new friend Jenn, because she trusts a stranger to hold hands with on an unwelcome journey, and because she loves Madonna and life's frivolities, just as much as I do." ~Renae~</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>I cough into my pillow at night to muffle the unGodly hacking sounds, and so the cold air doesn't pierce my lungs with every inward breath. I try to focus on my breathing alone, that I am still breathing. Somehow, I find comfort in that.</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Ten pounds down since my diagnosis and forcing myself to eat because my appetite hasn't been the same. I'm the girl that other women want to hate, unless they knew what was really going on. I know this, I'm a girl. I've secretly thought during healthy times "Ooohhh maybe if I got sick I'd lose some weight." We are just brainwashed. It's a horrible thought, but we think it anyway. And now I am sick, and now I have lost weight, and being thin is overrated. I am miserable. I would give anything to have my health and a few extra pounds; the energy to make myself exercise so I could lose that "excess" weight. It is so true that every time you get something, you have to give something else up. Of course, my friends are too busy wishing they could drop ten pounds to notice that my face looks gaunt, the wrinkles are more apparent, my eyes have lost their shine unless I am teared up; or maybe they are just too kind to say anything. But I hear my mother's worried voice in my head saying "Oh honey, you look so gaunt, and I can see it in your eyes that you are sick." I wish she was here to make me tea and see past the skinny jeans to know how I really feel. My health has taken it's toll and she is the only person to really notice.</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>I want my life back. I want to make plans with the blissful ignorance of forgetting to weigh illness into the plan equation. I mean seriously? I didn't even plan for the possibility of getting sick just before getting sick so I could get well. Are you confused yet? Think about it. I was supposed to start chemo. on Wednesday, which would make me sick. But I would get sick from chemo, so I could optimize my chances of being well. Then I got sick which meant I couldn't begin my treatments. I didn't calculate getting bronchitis, or any other illness into the treatment plan. That is what I call blissful ignorance.</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>So how is it that we mortals, susceptible to a zillion different germs daily, forget to calculate illness into our plans? Like, I wonder if women who give birth to those 14 pound babies ever think about the pain the next time they have sex or go into that "Oh honey, let's have another baby" mode. The female dinosaurs must have been so much smarter than us. In fact, I bet after childbirth they told their mates "Oh hell no, find yourself a virgin, I'm not getting pregnant again!" Hence the extinction of dinosaurs. Smart women they were.</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>So I'm wondering while I'm laying in my bed coughing now for seven straight days, missing work, frustrated, bored, and restless...did I <em>really</em> think I could go through the stress of breast cancer and not get sick? I was ready to take on chemo last Wednesday like a champ. I even cleaned my toilet so it would be puke worthy. In fact, I cleaned the whole bathroom just because under the circumstances I may be spending more time in there than I anticipate. I was ready, like a boxer jumping up and down with my boxing gloves on, adrenaline flowing, ready to go into the ring; ready to kick any living cancer cells from here to hell and then.....BAM! The sore throat came.</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>The great thing is, I'm sitting here in bed, looking out the window with Richard's cat, listening to the birds of spring chirp, watching the greenest of weeds in the back yard take hold and a few butterflies flutter by my window. I'm thinking about the day I will have the energy to take care of the weeds, and paint that back fence before the heat of the summer sun takes its toll. I don't plan on being sick when I make my plans, I only imagine the satisfaction of finished projects. In fact, I wonder if this chapter will one day be a memory that only occasionally pops its head out to remind me of how lucky I am to have my health and then, I'll smile and go back to sweating while I pull weeds and paint the fence, while I'm making other plans.</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Blissful ignorance. How I long for that day.</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Sweet Dreams and Always GOOD Dreams</strong></span><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia;">~Renae~</span></strong><br />
<div id="yui_3_2_0_16_133011182908940"><br />
</div></div></div>renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-28799157606746845892012-02-18T17:55:00.003-08:002012-03-12T22:24:26.048-07:00MY TOILET AND I<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYn1zadJ9djWY5NyodQcFV4ZmmIkJ0fb8yrsIuq-eaWUb7pK15ndc9HJ_9yp_QajKD_yracvw-B5VGDYG1GGaPWIxcjPMFlAV-MrywbJRaim6qENfNOCumitZs_kuvkPbk695mgbCSnp5P/s1600/toilet+bowl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYn1zadJ9djWY5NyodQcFV4ZmmIkJ0fb8yrsIuq-eaWUb7pK15ndc9HJ_9yp_QajKD_yracvw-B5VGDYG1GGaPWIxcjPMFlAV-MrywbJRaim6qENfNOCumitZs_kuvkPbk695mgbCSnp5P/s320/toilet+bowl.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In my fantasy of me, I live in a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">very </i>clean house. I did in fact take pride in my cleaning skills, prior to kids and dogs and cats and cancer….that was back in, 1989. I had a special toothbrush for cleaning any stain that appeared in the carpet. The perfumes were aligned from tallest to shortest, with proud perfection, and you could drink water out of my toilet bowl. Okay I’m exaggerating, because that’s downright disgusting, but if you were seriously dying of thirst or needed to throw up, the toilet was always clean for the taking.</span></strong></span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Some call it OCD, but I call it crazy. Clean houses are overrated, unless you have company coming to visit, only then should you make it a priority; that is if you actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">care</i> about the company. If you don’t, don’t clean. They'll know where they stand without your saying a word. </span></strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Since Lillian sleeps with me with her head on the pillow doing her dog snore chasing squirrels routine, (sometimes I roll over and mistake her for Richard), I <em>do</em> change my sheets a <em>lot; </em>that I will admit. There is nothing quite like the smell of clean sheets. Just thinking about it makes me want to crawl into bed. Ha, like I need a reason.</span></strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Oh and I like my kitchen clean, at least the counter tops. Real germs freak me out. So, why is it that people feed their cats on their kitchen counters????? People. Do you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">know</i> where their feet have been? Double gross.</span></strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Other than that and gross germy stuff, my only cleaning guilt is that I don’t clean my toilet regularly. I mean to, I know I should, I truly think about it even though I’m not going to catch anything from myself, but I simply <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hate </i>cleaning the toilet. I will pull weeds on a cold rainy day during an earthquake before I'll clean the toilet. You know all those little nooks and crannies around and in back of the outside of the toilet bowl? Those are time consuming, and if you want to clean a toilet right you need at least forty minutes to do it. So I procrastinate. I put it off until I hear the voice of my deceased grandmother haunting me with a vision of her disappointment that I didn’t inherit “the cleaning gene” and the thought of what she might say while shaking her head (!<em>Ayyyeeeeee que Cochina</em>!), and the guilt prevails and only <em>then</em> do I clean the dang toilet. Guilt in fact, up until a few days ago, was my only motivating factor.</span></strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But two days ago, I was sitting before the onco-neurologist who without my knowledge was testing my brain function. I swear I didn’t know she had started “the test.” I actually didn't even know there was going to be a brain function test.</span></strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“What’s your name?” she asked. How could she <em>not </em>know which patient she was seeing? Doesn't she have my chart?? I gave her the benefit of a busy day, and told her my name. Then she looked at me seriously and asked “Where <em>are</em> you?” “HUH?” I responded. “Wh…eerree…are.....you....?” she asked again, ever so slowly. “Um” I thought. "...doesn’t she know where we’re at? What’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wrong </i>with her?" “I’m at....Stanford???”, I sort of said with that questionable unsureness that only a confused girl would ask. She didn't respond, but proceeded to ask me today's date. I couldn't remember. That's how it goes when you are going through treatment, and my real treatment hasn't even begun. You just get overwhelmed with so many doctor's appointments, responsibilities you have to take care of prior and during your treatments, and then trying to live your life normally...you know, the bills, the cleaning (I threw that in for effect), the job, the groceries, the pets...I mean really, we are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i> tired. Does anyone remember the date anymore?? And then I realized, she knew the answers! She was testing my brain function! Okay, I admit, I felt stupid. Really, seriously stupid. I wanted to say “Wait! Start over! I know <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all </i>the answers! I'm really really smart...no really, I am!” But it was too late, she was on to smacking my thighs and feet with a metal tool that vibrated when it got to my toes while I held back the ticklish feet giggles. Unfortunately, my left foot wasn't responding appropriately.</span></strong></span><br />
<br />
<strong></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>A</b></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">pparently, the bad news is, I may have inherited my dad’s peripheral neuropathy gene, which means, I can’t have the latest and greatest chemotherapy regimen which can cause neuropathy or exacerbate a pre-existing condition (I really wish she would have asked me something intellectual or the definition of, let's say...elyeemosynary, which I could have smugly responded with "Oh, that's legal ease for a charitable contribution"). But no such luck.</span></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></strong></span><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So.....when the sun comes up early Wednesday morning and I start my first round of chemo, we are going for Plan B. Plan A didn’t have the other intense side effects, and so, Plan B will bypass the neuropathy issue, but cause, as my doctors say politely “insult to my immune system.” That is code for "Be prepared to puke." Which is how all this toilet cleaning business started. There is nothing worse than puking in dirty toilet.</span></strong></span></div></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And so, I am motivated. I am determined to make the most of this and I will clean my toilet with such pride that even Howie Mandell would sit on it with a sense of germless comfort that all is right with the world. </span></strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After all, if I am going to have to have a relationship with my toilet bowl, then it might as well be a <em>good</em> one, and that, my friends - is the good news.</span></strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sweet Dreams And Always GOOD Dreams,</span></strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">~Renae~</span></strong></span></div></div>renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-43088649292994068382012-02-13T22:31:00.000-08:002012-02-13T22:34:10.287-08:00FOR THE LOVE OF OUR CHILDREN<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbrs9oHcAFDHe1i_HLpjm83YDqCtruN4IIAgxC13gizFigBxH7rNunsK7TExiHbpl8uBGwBIq81w21DlnaA2epHJXkFNZ51RKKzzJCvXY9PSs68EZfLZUIwWcAYHf5LdDm8vjOyggR8Sze/s1600/imagesCABXLMQW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbrs9oHcAFDHe1i_HLpjm83YDqCtruN4IIAgxC13gizFigBxH7rNunsK7TExiHbpl8uBGwBIq81w21DlnaA2epHJXkFNZ51RKKzzJCvXY9PSs68EZfLZUIwWcAYHf5LdDm8vjOyggR8Sze/s320/imagesCABXLMQW.jpg" width="198" /></strong></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>"<em>Reeennnnaaaeeee! Time for your Shot!"</em><br />
That’s what my mother used to shout while I ran wildly disheveled through our dirt road neighborhood, in the days before screaming for your kid to come home out the front door became a semblance of uncivilized.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of the time while I was crawling through dirt tunnels in the side of the hill with mud the size of golf balls stuck in my full length hair, I would hear my mother’s voice “Time for your lunch!” and I would come running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only illness struck and I was shuffled off to the nuns at Providence Hospital and stuck in quarantine while I was poked, prodded, x-rayed, and had tubes put up my nose and down my throat so they could take samples of whatever it was they were looking for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had tuberculosis; an active case, which was rare, or unheard of in Anchorage in the 1960’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My parents fought tooth and nail to save my life, when they couldn’t be assured that I would live.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t scared, but they were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></strong></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Unlike most cases, mine uncharacteristically traveled from the lungs into my bloodstream and landed smack dab in my spine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, I’m sure that’s why every person I ever had contact with prior to that time was doing the River Dance when they learned that they too had to be tested for TB, from Alaska all the way to California.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That six year old version of me put everyone in a state of turmoil. And for the record, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did</i> run wild through the streets of my neighborhood in the 1960’s, under the close supervision of my big brother, hence the dirt tunnels instead of Barbies.</strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>There was no shock to me, except when I had to spend two weeks alone in a hospital room where only my parents could visit, fully clothed and masked, for one hour a day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s when I learned to tell time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I named the only doll I could have in the room “Alan,” after my brother, although I’m sure the doll was burned after my release.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I always wondered why I couldn’t take my Alan home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because the tuberculosis was not pulmonary (or contagious), I was sent home with my parents who received a crash course in administering what I later learned to be chemotherapy. </strong></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Little did I understand then, the immense pain a parent will take for the love of their children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>After the doctors found a concoction of 16 pills a day to replace the shots, I was left black and blue from butt to thigh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Honestly, I didn’t care, I just bit the pillow, counted to 25, and waited impatiently for my parents to finish the shot so I could go back out and play.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I was innocent to the fact </span>that my parents were falling apart through the hardship and fear imposed on them by my illness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>I can still see my mom, hands trembling, turning the bottle upside down while drawing the medication through the syringe; pushing out any air through the needle for fear of it getting into my veins, while one day under the pressure, she burst into tears and my dad had to take over.</strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Speaking of my dad, he was either a genius, or really, really dumb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the end, to my fortune, he was a genius.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The medical bills were far too outrageous for a couple, barely into their 30’s to handle, so they applied for assistance through the TB Association, who was recommended by my ever so handsome, Dr. Peterson. At six, I knew handsome when I saw handsome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But back to the point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The TB Association agreed to pay <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everything</i>, with one stipulation; that my parents sign their rights away to my treatment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My fearful and innocent parents sat in a conference room in front of a Board who held my life in their hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> But my</span> dad, being bad ass, not only said “No,” he said “HELL No” and my parents walked out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was not about to be anybody’s guinea pig or clinical trial girl without his consent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At that, the TB Association came back and agreed to full payment, no stipulations. Let’s just say that from thereon out, my parents gave back generously over the years while singing the praises of the Tuberculosis Association to all who would listen.</strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>On that note, we do what we do as crazy as it may seem, because we <em>love</em> our children, if for no other reason.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> We don't need another reason.</span></strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Did I ever mention that I had the police break up a party of hundreds of pubescent teenagers who came running out of a house like cockroaches, while I ran into the crowd screaming my daughter’s name? No I probably didn’t, but that’s what love does.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It makes us run into the fire, not away from it. It makes us crazy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>And so, against the odds of my cancer having made it through my bloodstream like the TB did years ago, in contrast to the absolute necessity of taking four cycles of poison that could have lasting effects on my quality of life, and regardless of my oncologist’s recommendations that it was only an option, I chose the chemo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before I changed from my little hospital gown that magically turns me into a submissive child (not that I ever was), I added one final statement before resting my case; “There is one aspect that science does not take into consideration, and that’s the psychological aspect of a patient’s decision. I never want to look into my daughters’ fearful eyes and have to say ‘I’m sorry, I should have tried the chemo.’.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s how much I love them.</strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>The good news is, I’ll be sitting in a comfy chair with my feet up, my own little flat screen t.v., a laptop, a good book, and my cell phone, instead of biting a pillow after my mother shouts to the neighborhood in a most uncivilized fashion, "<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Renae! Time for Your Shot!”</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My how times have changed.</strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Sweet Dreams and Always GOOD Dreams,</strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>~Renae~</strong></span></div></div></div>renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-33743338468973471092012-02-09T12:03:00.000-08:002012-02-09T12:11:45.903-08:00THIS IS CANCER<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHD-XUagpwteaswo_Qv_Sab5dvj7V38DM5sg12KHlpymd2fdtT96alfvYsryFBASYtoC4QAXjWFNhy_-ItysyAWPH424kjRhoiy8uDdql1vm1Lqo5PmQ2TSH3i0D8z79yuwKV86oVL_SOi/s1600/imagesCAE6DNHN.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHD-XUagpwteaswo_Qv_Sab5dvj7V38DM5sg12KHlpymd2fdtT96alfvYsryFBASYtoC4QAXjWFNhy_-ItysyAWPH424kjRhoiy8uDdql1vm1Lqo5PmQ2TSH3i0D8z79yuwKV86oVL_SOi/s320/imagesCAE6DNHN.jpg" width="244" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>So in my infinite naivety, I thought that cancer was an absolute science.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stage 1, Stage 2, Stage 3, Stage 4.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did you know there is a Stage 0? I sure didn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The answer to the only question most of us know “What stage are you in?” is the most perplexing question posed to me, other than “Why didn’t you <em>just</em> have a mastectomy?” How does one explain the layers of questions and answers fraught with imperfection, medical research, and psychological aspects that get weighed into our decisions regarding cancer treatment, or any other treatment for that matter?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>I’ve decided I need to hire my own staff just to field questions that exhaust me, even when I pose them to myself, at 4:00 a.m. when I am cursing my brain for not shutting down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can see it now, me, in cuddly flannels, snoozing on a floating cloud like a new born baby at wee hours of the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>morning, while a staff of spokespersons surround the cloud with microphones in hand, fielding the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>hundreds of questions by mobs that doubt my decisions or question my sanity. In my vision, I am there, thumb in mouth, rocking on a wispy cloud, blissfully snoring like a lovable cartoon character. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></strong></span><br />
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</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>In reality, the cloud bursts, I fall through, and the questions are storming any vision of peace I may have hoped for, if only in my own mind, while I shake myself off, pull myself up by the bootstraps, and am left dizzy and confused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That’s </i>cancer.</strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Stage 1 can mean at least 50 different things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How do I tell you, I’m a Stage 1, at the far end of Stage 1, with a lymphovascular invasion that was excised but could have still caused malignant cells to slip into my bloodstream? I simply can’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>So as a society, we go about our business and we rest assured when our friends or family are an early Stage. That is the comfort zone that science brings to all of us; a sense of….relief from a truth that most of us don’t really need to know, or even want to know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Because, life as we all know must go on, no matter what pain and disease, fears and illnesses permeate the lives of our loved ones. But I </span>will share with you a harsh truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stage 1 can kill you in the end, and Stage 4 that is known to kill you can potentially outlive a Stage 1 patient by 20 years, if they have a metastatic recurrence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That’s</i> cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Cancer is me, being told yesterday by my oncologist, “Your numbers for distant recurrence (i.e. metastasis) are very very low! That’s great news!” While I hold back the tears and scream in my head, “Low! Five to fifteen percent recurrence is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">low??”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>I would wager to bet if we looked at statistics of our heroes who have been deployed into Iraq and Afghanistan that show the possibility of mortality as 5-15% as being low, (I truly don’t know the numbers), that you ask any parent if there was a 1% chance their child could die in combat if that would be low enough for them….and I guarantee that no parent in their right mind will shrug that 1% off as no big deal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So you give me a 5-15% chance of possible metastatic recurrence and I’m sure and blazing fires of hell not going to jump for joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then again, the doctors see so much worse, truly. They see people with no hope in site and so, on that note, I am humbled, yet....I am selfish. I want a 0% recurrence rate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That simply doesn’t happen when it’s cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No sirreeebob.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No 0%.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <em>That's </em>cancer.</span></strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>As luck would have it, my line in the sand was anything under the number eleven (out of 1-100). Eleven is not the percentage, just a number that I will have my spokespersons explain when I hire one. Eleven and above was the decision in my mind to take the chemo, even though many with an eleven could have opted out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For those that have lived through the wildest roller coaster ride ever created which cannot be outdone or even simulated by the Gods of Magic Mountain, eleven is the number of my Oncotype DX score.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For those that don’t know what that is "Onco WHAT?", that's perfectly okay. In my book of abbreviations, that’s T.M.I.</strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Just know, there I was, on my almost two hour drive in bumper-to-bumper traffic to Stanford, and I said “eleven” that’s my line in the sand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I said (to myself, not out loud), "Just watch it be an eleven…I bet money it’s going to be an eleven just to mess a little more with my head. That would be just my luck." For those that don't know, gray areas and sitting on a fence with your pants down, sucks. There is no nice way to say it.</strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>I sat in my little backless gown with my red Superman underwear, which I only wear to doctor appointments and while flying, and the nurse said “Congratulations! <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Great News! </i>You have a very low Oncotype DX score!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t get excited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat there for a second, not wanting to know the answer to my next question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sucked in my breath, I let it out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked down at my fingers. I looked at my unpolished boots, wishing I had polished them before wearing them to my appointment. I looked at my unpainted chipped fingernails from shelving too many library books, and then I looked up. Slowly, oh so very slowly I asked the question that I did not really want the answer to. “What’s the number?” </strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>"It's an eleven." She said.</strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Chemo starts in two weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><em>This is cancer</em>, after all.</strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Sweet Dreams and Always GOOD Dreams, </strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>~Renae~</strong></span></div></div></div>renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-6998045211674460192012-02-01T15:35:00.000-08:002012-02-01T15:55:32.134-08:00THE NAKED TRUTH<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><em><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>WARNING: CONTAINS PHOTO AND SUBJECT MATTER THAT MAY MAKE YOU SQUIRM IN DISCOMFORT.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>FOR THIS REASON, I AM POSTING THE PHOTO AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE. I AM COMPLETELY SERIOUS.</strong></span></em></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>What you are about to see is nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is, in fact, only the tip of the iceberg (pardon the pun).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have written many serious articles about breast cancer, and mixed them up with stories of reindeer humping and dog massages, because life doesn’t always have to be heavy, after all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But today I am back to…take a guess….breast cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can everyone say BREAST CANCER?? Makes ya squirm a little doesn’t it?</strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>But no worries, it is not really real, you won’t get it; only other people get it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Okay, I lie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyone can get it, and until it happens to you, or your wife, or sister or mother or cousin or best friend….it is nothing more than a pretty pink ribbon used to make money by corporations like Kentucky Fried Chicken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t worry, greasy chicken doesn’t cause cancer, only heart attacks; although the stress hormones the chickens produce while being encapsulated in inhumane cages may be passed on to us once we consume the product, which could in fact cause cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nah, I’m kidding. That’s a dang hippie liberal talking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh wait, I am a dang hippie liberal.</strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><strong> One with breast cancer. But I digress, I still eat chicken. Only I'd be more drawn to eating a pinkwashed* chicken. </strong></span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Am I scared? You bet I am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t supposed to happen to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t supposed to find out one week after my 50<sup>th</sup> birthday that my love of life and friends and family isn’t necessarily going to last forever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a cruel joke…and right after my birthday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are all mortal.</strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>The worst part is, and I think those of you that know me will agree….I don’t know who I am anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am angry and scared and frustrated, in between bouts of joy and laughter and fantasizing about the fact that I have never run naked through the streets of San Ramon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And maybe I should because wouldn’t that be funny as hell to run through the streets of my cookie cutter neighborhood without any clothes on? I never wanted to streak, but maybe I do now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, what are they going to do? Take part of my boob away?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></strong></span><a href="http://youtu.be/xUIu03s3oNY"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>http://youtu.be/xUIu03s3oNY</strong></span></a></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>And yet, I have such abhorrence toward my own feelings because, how dare I complain when I am only a Stage 1?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is the loss of a nipple compared to the loss of a breast – or both breasts??<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Add an abundance of guilt for the self-pity to my overwhelming fears and you have a mixed up emotional 50 year old that’s supposed to know how to deal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But here's what you probably <em>don't</em> know. Breast cancer isn’t really all about the breasts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most people don’t know that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>“They can take mine and give me bigger ones!” I’ve been told by the unscathed, the innocent who have not been held captive or taken victim by this ugly disease.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, breast cancer is having a heavy lead frying pan hit you over the head at 60 miles per hour while you crawl to the phone to call 911; only you can’t find the phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> It's about a nightmare that doesn't let you wake up. It's about trying to find a ray of sun in a storm. </span>It is about hours of reading and re-reading your pathology report, only to find a month after your successful “breast conservation surgery” that you in fact had a lymphovascular invasion in your tumor, which you spend hours researching until it is 2:00 a.m. and you are begging your brain to shut off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is about waking up in the morning exhausted and then crying when you hear a song that reminds you of a happier time, when mortality wasn’t in your face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s about looking at your children and knowing they still need you around, not according to five or ten year statistics, but in twenty years when they desperately need you to give them advice while raising their own children, because you will be grandma and that counts for more than you could ever know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stage 1 doesn’t mean you have struck a home run, it only means you have more time to figure out how to keep it from turning into Stage 4.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>I should be grateful, which I am in between bouts of hysterical laughter for no reason at all, which no one should ever have to witness, tears that come from a place so deep in the gut that I never knew existed, and love that is so passionate I want to squeeze it like Lennie did to the puppy in Steinbeck’s “Of Mice and Men.”</strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Breast cancer has made me crazy. In some ways, I like myself so much more because of the enlightenment and the connection I feel to all that is kind and beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In other ways, I have become ugly, obsessed, angry, and hateful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Basking in pity parties is part of that ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know this will pass in time, I know in the recess of my soul what I and so many other women are capable of achieving during our most trying of times. </strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>But I beg you to let us honor our pain, even if and it is ugly. <em>Please,</em> love us anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are so much greater than our breasts or a pink ribbon or the reality that no one really wants to see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the naked truth is this...I am still me, no matter what they take; no matter how bruised my body, or my soul. I am still me.</strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis5tndEh1NSql8AwcI7qhjBiWdMn4DotrnHciGTo7m5349tSFAa1VQ1xObgSuZJ8U7rW8HjpPPpCsT0TXy_-NdU_9TTb6scdrQuwBPyf3yitVHebKZ0fBmeKBZCNkCKO5B3oml_CsDmvI3/s1600/021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis5tndEh1NSql8AwcI7qhjBiWdMn4DotrnHciGTo7m5349tSFAa1VQ1xObgSuZJ8U7rW8HjpPPpCsT0TXy_-NdU_9TTb6scdrQuwBPyf3yitVHebKZ0fBmeKBZCNkCKO5B3oml_CsDmvI3/s200/021.JPG" width="150" /></a></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">...and don't say I didn't warn ya.</span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Sweet Dreams and Always GOOD Dreams,</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">~Renae~</span></strong><br />
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><strong>"...</strong><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Komen has also been caught up in the controversy over "</span><a class="mw-redirect" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pinkwashing" title="Pinkwashing"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">pinkwashing</span></a><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"—the use of breast cancer and the pink ribbon </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">by corporate marketers, especially to promote products that might be unhealthful—in return for a donation to the cause." ( <span class="citation news">Stacie, Stukin (2006-10-08). <a class="external text" href="http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1543947-1,00.html" rel="nofollow">"Pink Ribbon Promises"</a>. <a class="mw-redirect" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/TIME" title="TIME">TIME</a><span class="printonly">. <a class="external free" href="http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1543947-1,00.html" rel="nofollow">http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1543947-1,00.html</a></span><span class="reference-accessdate">. Retrieved 2007-04-23</span>.)</span></span></span></span></div></div>renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-39599851003037484542012-01-27T13:16:00.000-08:002012-01-27T15:26:11.536-08:00IT'S A DOG'S LIFE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcbXtHcCvkNnsT5mW3yfsQ_uroHwfVqpGMloi9PjVWobHTPnSYu68O5DeIM6l9x8bi8ZrsaQbHGf46NQ-58_Ts_xWOCHM4PqJCMSay4cAolJXkAuuaG6Oj_XtbxyY45v2a1pidU9ayM9gX/s1600/007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcbXtHcCvkNnsT5mW3yfsQ_uroHwfVqpGMloi9PjVWobHTPnSYu68O5DeIM6l9x8bi8ZrsaQbHGf46NQ-58_Ts_xWOCHM4PqJCMSay4cAolJXkAuuaG6Oj_XtbxyY45v2a1pidU9ayM9gX/s320/007.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I was lying down yesterday, as I often do after a harried three hour work schedule at the library, and I had a brilliant idea…"I should get a massage!!"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of my ideas are in fact, brilliant, until I calculate the logic or the financial ruin I would be left with, and then they become simply <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dumb</i> ideas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The last of which was to follow in the footsteps of Elizabeth Gilbert in “Eat, Pray, Love” which would have ultimately led me to experiencing the richness of numerous pastas in Italy, scrubbing floors in an Ashram in India, and wearing a sundress while riding a bicycle down the dirt streets of Bali while having my fortune told by an old wise man who claimed to be hundreds of years old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Getting a massage could lead to my ruin, like smoking pot, a gateway to bigger and better things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I nixed the idea of the massage, lest I end up broke and hungry in a foreign country.</span></strong><br />
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</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Unfortunately, without these fanciful ideas to offset my perpetual state of anxiety, I would be toast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My thought process goes something like this:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You <em>should</em> walk the dogs, you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really </i>should walk the dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good dog owners walk their dogs every day, not once a week out of guilt.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But my boob hurts” I replied to myself with indignation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re just pulling the sore boob card because you are <em>too</em> lazy to walk your dogs, just admit it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ve gotten lazy.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i>lazy, I just don’t feel like struggling with two unruly Beagles on a leash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just want calm. Can’t I just live in a state of calm without constant guilt?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then the idea hit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> "</span>I’ll put in a relaxation CD! <em>That </em>will calm my nerves.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Brilliantly, as usual, </span>I took it up a notch. “Meet me in the living room, six o’clock sharp!” I shouted to Bailey and Lilly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“And DON’T be late!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I really did say that, I didn’t just think it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So, like any good dog owner would do, I set out a big rug in the middle of the living room, I lit candles, I popped in a relaxation CD and turned all the lights low.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pulled out dog brushes, toothbrushes, doggie tooth paste, vinegar and water for ear cleaning and a 5x magnifying glass to look for any signs of fleas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fortunately, when they aren’t walked often, they aren’t exposed to fleas and ticks as other unfortunate pets might be….I started with Bailey.</span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Bailey, come!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked at me with suspicion in his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Come!” He crouched down like he was being scolded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“C’mon Bailey, it’s time for your doggie massage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People pay good money for this you know.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t trust my intentions or believe my words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But slowly, wanting to appease, he crawled toward me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Good boy!” I whispered, keeping a calm voice so as not to disturb the tranquility of this soon to be meditation/mindfulness session.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I began to massage his ears, his neck, his stomach, and his legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has ticklish toes, so I bypassed the feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Although I feel he should have been appreciative, h</span>e was blatantly annoyed with the inconvenience of my sudden desire to treat him like a doll being played with by a five year old girl. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Lillian was my next victim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After seeing Bailey’s reluctance, she followed suit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My normally excitable girl came slowly, just as Bailey had, crouching down and crawling forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gently began to massage her back, then her ears, then….her feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lilly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">loves</i> foot massages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As “<em>Swimming Into Serenity</em>” from the relaxation CD quietly played in the candlelit background of my self-produced dog massage parlor, I sat cross-legged on the floor in an almost Buddhist fashion…while Lilly fell into a deep hypnotic trance, on my lap, belly up, all four feet spread up towards the sky, with not a worry in the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I may have heard her snoring.</span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Sometimes, the dumbest of ideas can be downright brilliant, and in the end, I didn't have to spend a dime. Even my own anxiety drifted into oblivion with the sweet sound of calm and the aroma of the vanilla scented candles. Needless to say, Bailey and Lilly slept peacefully through the night,as did I.</span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Sweet Dreams and Always GOOD Dreams,</span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">~Renae~</span></strong></div></div></div>renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-57242098976364964322012-01-15T19:26:00.000-08:002012-01-15T19:58:32.401-08:00REINDEER REBELS<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE7qU2R8_48gj7bq6DdvUYO4KgO-Ds-RQzr7Pr4zEmkiFX9vYBFxJbqrJ80SezuTXBu78jbEma3i2X5KFgQxMbw59n2FUiPqFKotYynYNyeKXkhhaVyCmACv4Sm6cb6_AVg9kfjgjGQA6X/s1600/381918_2978248175919_1253316134_33086449_705833278_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE7qU2R8_48gj7bq6DdvUYO4KgO-Ds-RQzr7Pr4zEmkiFX9vYBFxJbqrJ80SezuTXBu78jbEma3i2X5KFgQxMbw59n2FUiPqFKotYynYNyeKXkhhaVyCmACv4Sm6cb6_AVg9kfjgjGQA6X/s320/381918_2978248175919_1253316134_33086449_705833278_n.jpg" width="259" /></a></div><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">It started several years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Humping reindeer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Proudly, I had decorated my house for Christmas with vibrant red ribbon wrapped carefully around each post of my porch to simulate candy canes, I hung flickering clear lights along both top and bottom, circling the lights around the porch railing for added effect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I added red bows for enhancement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, as a final touch, I spent hours hooking up my moving reindeer, trying to figure which cord plugged into which and why when all the cords were plugged in only one of the reindeer was lit, only one moved it’s head, and there were left over cords with no place to connect. </span></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Year after year of head scratching and wondering if the neighbors were peeking through their blinds in judgment of my reindeer incompetence, I finally got smart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I labeled each plug “A-E” with each counterpart labeled with the same letter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I used indelible ink (smart girl that I am) so that it wouldn’t fade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My plan worked, but then, eventually, half the light bulbs burned out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again, I used my good brain cells and outsmarted the “extra” bulbs that come in the little clear package with directions that can only be read by a 5x magnifying glass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Really, I think it’s a conspiracy to make consumers feel embarrassed, and to ultimately throw away the “old” reindeer and buy new ones. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the “Stott” family we have a saying…”Just because we’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get us.”</span></strong><br />
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</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So, I did what any intelligent girl would do, I bought an extra long strand of lights and wrapped the strand with reckless abandon throughout the deer, and tossed away those cruel little "excess" bulbs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, I have the Christmas deer down to a science.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> However, t</span>his <em>is</em> where the personality difference comes in between Richard and me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would have figured out how the little bulbs worked and used that 5x magnifying glass until he knew <em>exactly</em> which light was the faulty one and which to replace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><em>He</em> would have been systematic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Me, I just wrapped the lights here and there, randomly, and wherever I could find a spot to stick the extra strand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of the reindeer have bald spots, I admit, but some of them have extra lights on their moving heads, which makes for a bright face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It works for me, nevertheless.</span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">But then one night, a few years ago, the unthinkable happened….Richard and I came home from Christmas shopping and what to our wandering eyes would appear?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The reindeer were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">humping!</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I laughed so hard, I almost peed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought it was a great prank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wished I had thought of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I was reminded of the pranks I pulled when I was young, and enjoyed living vicariously through whomever these neighborhood pranksters were…but unlike the pranks I pulled, there was no reason to call the police, and so I kept laughing. Richard, on the other hand, didn’t take it so well…he was appalled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What’s <em>wrong</em> with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kids </i>these days?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> He snapped. </span>I had to remind him of the unmentionable things <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he did</i> which he seemed to have forgotten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That’s still no excuse” </i>he grumbled, sounding like my father.</span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Every year I have looked forward to the laughter brought on by the sneaky neighborhood pranksters, knowing they find delight in humping reindeer, only this year, something strange happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> First, t</span>he reindeer were atop one another (humping), and I set them back up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then the little one appeared on the side of the doe, which was odd since with certainty, I had placed the fawn in the <em>middle</em> of both parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Lastly</span>, the morning I was heading to my surgery with my daughter, I noticed that ALL the reindeer were facing the driveway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> She insisted I had put them that way. <em>"</em>I <em>know</em> how I put my reindeer!" I snapped. </span>But since I’m always considered to be short a few brain cells, I ceased to defend my position.</span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Then this week, just before taking my Christmas lights down (let it be known that it is not <em>yet</em> the end of January) the truth came out. </span></strong><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">My neighbor Susan pulled up in her SUV. “Renae…” she stated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“There’s something I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have </i>to tell you!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> "</span>Did I do something wrong? Have I not gotten out my thank-you cards quickly enough? Is she mad at me?" I wondered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“I was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">soooo</i> mad the night before your surgery! It was 2:00 a.m. and I heard this noise, so I looked out my window and I saw the neighborhood kids messing with your reindeer!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></strong><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I laughed and was relieved that that's all it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“All I could think….,” she continued “was that there you were going into surgery and several kids were in <em>your</em> front yard doing this to <em>you</em>!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Little had she known, this was my yearly joy. This had been one of those little things I could count on that would bring me laughter. </span>Then she stated that she was <em>SO MAD </em>she took a picture as proof of what those kids had done!</span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">But, I was still puzzled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“So, what I can’t figure out, is how did they all end up facing my driveway?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Oh that’s an easy one" she said. "I marched right over to your house and put them all back.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And so, the good news is, I have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i>lost my mind; I have neighbors looking out for me; and I still manage to find joy in humping reindeer despite the fact that I’m <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">supposed </i>to be an adult.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And so you deer humping rebels of the neighborhood…I know who you are, I know what you do and when you do it, and the proof...well it's clearly in the picture that my dear neighbor took while trying to protect me, but more likely in the sound of my laughter for reminding me of the joys of being young. </span></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Until next year....</span></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Sweet Dreams and Always GOOD Dreams,</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia;">~Renae~<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></strong></div></div></div>renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-10499561192030716572012-01-03T11:48:00.000-08:002012-01-03T12:02:10.781-08:00These Boots Are Made For Struttin'<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh24hYOpDmDW_aIJfd904U2a6AOYVVMSOb9cbVQXSkdW0Q3JhoY1wcPvbS-3F1wXCgYpAG16k9WHjA5ZE71cyoWZlaESmtK4lMiEn-Lxi_r9dIP35djfud3-k5niTBF_VKjALHyZazux668/s1600/Stella-McCartney-Thigh-High-boots-Fall-2009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh24hYOpDmDW_aIJfd904U2a6AOYVVMSOb9cbVQXSkdW0Q3JhoY1wcPvbS-3F1wXCgYpAG16k9WHjA5ZE71cyoWZlaESmtK4lMiEn-Lxi_r9dIP35djfud3-k5niTBF_VKjALHyZazux668/s200/Stella-McCartney-Thigh-High-boots-Fall-2009.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>I am not the same person I was a week ago, and a completely different person than I was two months ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the first morning I have woken up from my surgery six days ago without feeling shell-shocked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The best description I can offer is that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you go to a movie based in suspense which comes with an unexpected ending.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are twists and turns that keep you glued to your seat, and then the end comes and you are left in utter shock, bewildered really, and you sit there for an extra minute in your hard movie seat, pretending to read the credits, when in fact, you are numb with devastation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a hush across a normally crowded theatre and eventually, because you can’t sit in the seats forever, people begin walking out in a simultaneous wave of silence because, no one saw it coming; you didn’t see it coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Think <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Seven Pounds</i> with Will Smith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></strong></span><br />
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</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>I don’t know how else to better explain the shell-shock I’ve experienced over the last two months of being diagnosed with cancer, having, to date, 18 needles stuck into parts of my body that I dare not mention for fear of making you cringe, losing part of my breast, and then getting the best news ever….”It hasn’t spread.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only by the way…now you have six weeks of radiation, five years of hormone treatment (as if I’m not moody enough in my normal state), still a possibility of chemotherapy (think atomic bomb on any malignant cell that even considers peeking the top of it’s head out from the charred remains while looking back and forth with bright eyes to consider it’s safe return for more destruction). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>The only real difference is that an hour after a shocking movie ending we are laughing and planning for the next day, or what we want to eat for dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Should we do a drive through or eat last night’s leftovers?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In real life, we don’t shake the last scene an hour later; it lives within us for an indefinite period of time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How indefinite, I do not know.</strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>I realized this yesterday when I was taking my walk, breathing in my Vitamin D of sunshine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was just…walking, slowly, not smiling, not frowning, just sort of there in surreal land. Shouldn’t I be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">happy? </i>Shouldn’t I be jogging and smiling and waving to strangers after the good news that the cancer hasn’t spread?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suppose in a logical world that would be my response, but my amygdala (the part of the brain that processes emotion) hasn’t caught up to the rest of my brain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the record, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">love </i>the word “amygdala” not just for the word, but because there is so much interesting science behind that newly studied part of the brain that makes it downright fascinating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I use that word whenever the opportunity arises, plus it makes me sound smart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But until this morning, I have been in a state of shell shock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The words coming out of my mouth have not been in sync with the movement of my lips; like the video is a beat or two off. And what do I say when my daughter asks with such concern “Mama, what’s wrong?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I can’t even begin to put it into words because, I don’t’ know what’s wrong, I really don’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Did I tell you I got her fired from her job a few days before my surgery??<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, I’m sure I didn’t mention <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> because it wasn’t my proudest moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My Monica, who boasts that she is just like me…is nothing like me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She will stay at a job forever no matter how much abuse is thrown her way, while people are quitting like flies…she will stay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Me, I’m a quitter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no staying power, no stomach to take abuse of any form.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But my Monica, she says “I’ll work it out!” She is a fighter, unlike me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She holds her ground, and stays. I cuss and storm out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>But on this particular day, just a few days before my surgery, over a month after she requested a week off (unpaid because they offer no benefits or raises at Fitness 19), to take care of me the day before, during and after my surgery, she was ruthlessly called into the office by her supervisor, Stephanie, and told she could not take the week off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fact that she had to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fight for it </i>infuriated her; the fact that Stephanie responded with “What…your mom’s going to be in surgery for a whole week? I don’t think so...” crushed any sense of value she had with the company.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But hey, two employees just quit so what’s a partial mastectomy in comparison? I mean, how dare she ask for a week off to care for me? In the end, she got the week off after putting up a fight, less one day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>New Year’s Day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Forget that she has covered every other holiday without extra pay or even a thank you, including this past Thanksgiving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People love their gyms on the holidays.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Forget that her name is on the front door to call “in case of an emergency” – not the supervisors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But God forbid she ask for a week off to take care of me.</strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>And so, behind Monica’s back….because I would never do this in front of her….I made a choice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first was to go into Fitness 19 and punch Stephanie in the face. I wanted to. I thought about it. But, it would have landed me in jail on Christmas and just before my surgery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The second was to call Stephanie and ask for her email address and that of the owner (which I did and she denied me), so that I could write a “professional” letter without the emotion, explaining the need for someone going through breast cancer surgery to have support for a whole week, and why Monica was the one that could offer that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It didn’t turn out that way…Stephanie was rude, beyond rude….downright cruel. It turned ugly and I ended it with a “YOU disgust ME!” as she threatened to call the police.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I guess she thinks the police give a rats ass if someone calls her a name. Then again, maybe the San Ramon police do, but that's beside the point. </span>An hour later, Monica called me to tell me she had just been fired from Fitness 19.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> She had no idea why. </span>She was fired in a message on her voicemail stating they would mail her her last check and that they didn’t need her any longer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three years and three months of loyalty and there you have it; the reality of the world we live in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Or maybe the reality of having an ill mama bear for your mother. </span>And by the way, if any one of you has a desire to call Stephanie at Fitness 19 in San Ramon, for say, a new gym membership….the number is (925) 327-1919....tell them Renae sent you. </strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Ironically, the next morning after being fired, Monica received over 16 calls from gym members who were standing outside in the cold at 5:00 a.m. because no one had opened the gym (remember her number was on the front door?)….Fitness 19 told her it had been up to her to remove it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would that have been before or after she was fired?? </strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>But this story isn’t about Monica being fired or me having breast cancer or the great news I received from the most amazing surgeon ever who took the time to call me on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">his </i>New Year’s Eve to give me the good news that he really didn’t have to give me until a week later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is about this little thing I learned and retained in my high school Psychology class called saturation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When a person’s ears take in too much sound, we go deaf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When our eyes take in too much light, we go blind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When our brains take in too much to process….we go “shell-shocked.” The damage has been enormous, the emotion, too much to grasp and yet....I have faith that something good will come. After destruction there is new growth, opportunity to build, time to reflect.</strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>This morning I didn’t wake up numb, or angry, or sad, ….I just woke up wondering where I could get the best deal on over-the-knee sexy ass leather boots to wear tucked into black tights or jeans and what color I should dye my hair and should I keep it sexy long or go with sassy short?</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Perhaps 2012 is a time to rebuild.</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Sweet Dreams and Always GOOD Dreams,</strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>~Renae~</strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div></div>renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-65122821905275009672011-12-31T11:58:00.000-08:002012-01-01T18:54:06.730-08:00...AND THE STORM CAME<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilUXio_bFreKQ3H8nJMx-BILRo6LRY14PZhOvC4J1ITkFDdk88F_YF67dKT6p6AhMQeGRfbpueiSwwKGcVZQuoymMXGCIGIonsu2ZWyGebxvs77VMbVxQ6KrPOV8qmQ1ZlkuRJTRv9QuIj/s1600/images%255B10%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilUXio_bFreKQ3H8nJMx-BILRo6LRY14PZhOvC4J1ITkFDdk88F_YF67dKT6p6AhMQeGRfbpueiSwwKGcVZQuoymMXGCIGIonsu2ZWyGebxvs77VMbVxQ6KrPOV8qmQ1ZlkuRJTRv9QuIj/s400/images%255B10%255D.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Last night for the first time, exactly seven weeks and four days after I was given the diagnosis of breast cancer, I felt immense shame.</strong></span><br />
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</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>I am not afraid to cry and grieve and yell at the God’s in my self-centered moments of “Why me?” In fact, I don’t think I ever even had the “Why me?” thought cross my mind. Yes I have cried and grieved….but, “Why anybody?” Why the little children with the bald heads and innocent hearts, who were being wheeled around Stanford by grieving parents, trying to be strong themselves while I knew, in every corner of their hearts they were crumbling? Why them?? </strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>So, I digress, I never thought “Why me?” But through my shock and fear and, my defense mechanism of cracking jokes and making light of my situation (although God forbid anyone else make light of it), my desire to be a good patient and to keep the passengers feeling safe on the crashing jet, I proudly operated in my usual fashion. I did my best to keep everyone calm; after all, we are not supposed to panic during an emergency. If Capt. "Sully" Sullenberger had panicked even for a split second, US Airways Flight 1549 would have been full of screaming hysterical passengers, the plane would have crashed into the Hudson River, the 155 passengers aboard would have most likely died, and his signed book would not be standing at a place of honor on my great-grandfather’s antique table. He didn’t panic, nor did his co-pilot.</strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Lucky for me, I had so many co-pilots by my side, that even <em>had</em> I panicked, they would have taken the wheel for me. In fact, had it not been for the amount of support I had at the hospital alone, who I referred to regularly as “My body guards," a veiled threat to the outnumbered hospital staff in the unlikely case that any one of them considered treating me with anything but dignity...I may not have had the good fortune of having my <em>very own</em> private room. Personally, I think we were so loud that they wouldn't have given me anything but a private room. So <em>that's</em> the secret.</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>I have been very fortunate. Beyond the countless people that were there holding me up as I was wheeled into the OR (and nicely drugged I might add), the faces of my Aunt Katie, my cousin Becky, my cousin Eileen (all cancer survivors), my beautiful man Richard, my daughter Monica and her dear Marine friend Jeff and my daughter Nicole and possibly my future son-in-law Phillip were all there, reminding me that in this world, I will never be alone.</strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>And before I forget….did I mention that prior to surgery I received in the mail a nine page single spaced letter from the Genetics Oncologist, which by the way was so full of facts and figures and family history that I had to read it twice? Yes, I have a serious family history of cancer. Yes, I have a 23% chance of recurrence…but after two in-depth readings do you know what I actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">took away </i>from this letter? Hold on, let me get the letter….Under Physical Examination<i> the letter said “The patient is very pleasant.”</i> I was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so </i>flattered. Then, at the end of the nine page letter, the Attending Physician’s Statement said, verbatim, “I appreciate the chance to be involved in the care of this <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">very pleasant patient.” </i>I walked around for a day calling myself <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“a very pleasant patient.” </i>23% chance of recurrence? Who cares?<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> I’m PLEASANT! They like me! They really like me! </i>And I laughed as I went on with my day repeating the word “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pleasant</i>” to myself as many times as I needed reinforcement that “hey, I’m okay in their book!” Which takes me back to the Japanese proverb that our dear friend Margaret Donatello shared with me about kindness….”One kind word can warm three winter months.” For a full day after reading the letter, I forgot I had cancer, because of that one word that validated everything I want to believe about myself as a human being. That I am good.</strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>And so…the earth turned as usual, I came home a day after surgery, the relatives showered me with love and gifts and said their good-byes, the daughters went back to their 20 something year old world (as they should), and with the exception of my selfless, loyal, and unconditional Richard, the silence set in. </strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>We went to bed. I had three layers on top…a grey sports bra, a pretty pink floral stretchy tube top courtesy of Stanford and Anthem Blue Shield, and my snuggly <span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">long-sleeved button-up Liz Claiborne pajamas courtesy of my cousin Eileen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I needed to get the blasted sports bra off, it was cutting off my ability to breathe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t think much of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked Richard to help me because I can’t lift my right arm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gently and tenderly Richard helped me remove all three garments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said not a word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got up from bed and walked to my mirrored closet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was a deer in headlights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My breathing became shallow, my bottom lip began to quiver, and without the jokes and false bravado, reality came, and it came with a vengeance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t so brave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stood, unable to look away, yet horrified to look, quietly and in shock at the site of my breast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like driving by an accident only you realize at that moment the person in the accident is someone you know and love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could barely speak but managed to get two words out through my tears… "</span></span><i>I'm deformed</i>.” First the shock, then the tears, then the reality, then….the shame. The cruel, cold, horrible, almighty shame.</strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Richard left me standing there, momentarily, so as not to disturb my need to process my new truth. It’s hard to celebrate being alive when one feels shame. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s so ugly. It’s so fucking ugly</i>." Richard waited just enough beats, as though he was in rhythm with my grief and knew exactly what to do. He stood up and quietly put his arms around me, still not saying a word. </strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How can you ever look at me again?</i>” I knew all along, these feelings would come, I just didn’t know when. Grief is an inevitable parallel of life.</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>I felt like a child who was falsely accused and carrying shame that I had no part of "<em>It's not my fault</em>" I said. And then I said it again as if trying to convince myself and Richard that it really wasn't my fault. In my warped mind, I was quietly begging him not to hold it against me, to love me anyway, to not hold me accountable for this....this ugliness that was now my own.</strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Richard held me carefully, like a china doll that might break at any moment with one wrong move. He rubbed my hair and let me sob into his neck. It was an intimate moment in my most vulnerable of states. The type of moment that you pray when it comes, if it does come in your lifetime, you will have that perfect person that knows exactly what to say to make it all better. Without a second thought and ever so genuinely he whispered in my ear, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You will always be beautiful to me.”</i> That was what I needed to know. That was what I needed to hear.</strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>It is in those intimate moments where pain and fear and shame meet at the cross-roads of life, where we are faced with our truest of selves, in the rawest of form, at the darkest of hours….it is in those moments, by the people that love us, genuinely and unconditionally...it is only then, that we are made real.</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><em>"...Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly..."</em> said the Skin Horse to the Velveteen Rabbit.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Sweet Dreams and Always GOOD Dreams</strong></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>~Renae~ </strong></span></div></div></div>renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4260829363033106433.post-81084640212425734732011-12-19T12:33:00.000-08:002011-12-19T22:40:12.135-08:00Thank You For This Christmas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVRqmEpWAzq7hpzZZT79EjIJfs_cisVbVrTeLcFUZN5RNC4ze_in8phHJgoFYddmrzrudIjNGfXnm4kKQUaxK6XtHUwDat0NfiZDqnDswewm_SYl9TKrIs_FCAMCCN5_MDZqQ_M_2p8i2K/s1600/P1010013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVRqmEpWAzq7hpzZZT79EjIJfs_cisVbVrTeLcFUZN5RNC4ze_in8phHJgoFYddmrzrudIjNGfXnm4kKQUaxK6XtHUwDat0NfiZDqnDswewm_SYl9TKrIs_FCAMCCN5_MDZqQ_M_2p8i2K/s400/P1010013.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">As I write this, it is officially five days before Christmas Eve and nine days before my surgery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My life is a paradox of mixed emotion. I love Christmas, I hate the commercialism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then maybe I secretly love the commercialism, even though admitting to it is like admitting to enjoying the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard. I like that while perusing the aisles I am serenaded with the sounds of feel-good "Oh Holy Night" and "Jingle Bell Rock" and that even when Christmas begins for the retailers the day after Halloween and I am undeniably annoyed (how <em>could </em>they?) I am thrust into the spirit anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m just glad I don’t work retail, or then I would hate Christmas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">You know they do it for marketing; corporate marketing brilliance that is meant to prey on our emotion of giving…and buying….and we do, because we love to give. Their little marketing ploy is downright evil if you think about it, maximizing the goodness in our hearts even when our pocketbooks lack the necessary padding to accompany our desires to buy for others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So out come the charge cards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I shuffle through, wondering which has the lowest interest rate; the lowest balance so that when the bill comes after the spirit has long passed, I can tell myself the little lie that I didn’t spend that much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s brilliant really, just plain brilliant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, I secretly hate Christmas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did I just say that? Yes, I did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes I hate Christmas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">But this year is different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am strong enough to know that the real spirit of Christmas has nothing to do with charging gifts; so I am giving only three gifts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So take <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>you, you big bully commercialism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am giving to the three children in my life who deserve to know the Christmas’ that I had as a child, and the joy of opening gifts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Auntie Renae will <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i>disappoint.</span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Then without fail, I am reminded of my upcoming surgery and the spell of the spirit is momentarily destroyed; but not for long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Christmas isn’t just another day that my family celebrates, but a time of tradition and a reminder of, well, who we are as a family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The girls have learned to expect a big double batch of homemade chili beans and eggnog; last year I added the ham and I think the rolls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> There will be laughter, and there will be arguing, and then laughter again. It is Christmas after all, I'm not going to sugarcoat it. </span></span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">In days gone by, it was just the three of us, and they were little, so the single batch of hot chili with melted cheese and crackers was sufficient while I attempted to put them in matching dresses, even though there was no company in site trudging up to knock on our front door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took many memorable pictures and for 18 years my only request was that they sat on Santa’s lap so that I could display 18 years of Santa photos with pride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have never let me down.</span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Fortunately, the family has grown with dogs and cats and boyfriends and friends and our tradition continues…only I had to throw in the ham and rolls and actually call it dinner, sort of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love Christmas because it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> a tradition that we have built over the years. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never knew that the time and angst I put into the details over the years would become the traditions my children love and look forward to as adults.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See, we groom them for later years, while we fuss and worry, and sneak around the house at 4:00 a.m. hoping they won’t hear the sound of Santa filling their stockings – we are actually making memories that will live with them forever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What seemed at times obligatory and overwhelming, turned into so much more. </span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Yet, three days after Christmas, I will be in a hospital room awaiting the fate of my future to be determined. Will the cancer have spread? Will I need chemotherapy? What stage am I?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Will I be one of the lucky ones to celebrate Christmas for years to come, while watching my family grow and adding a bigger ham, making a triple batch of chili, and watching my grandchildren tear open their own gifts in delight…or will I be faced with a reality that I am not ready to face?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have enjoyed 50 Christmas’s after all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Am I asking too much to want 50 more?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>God let me have 50 more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I promise I will always love Christmas, even the chaos of the holiday, if you will only give me 50 more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Okay, I’ll take 20, we’ll go with 20; but if it’s only 10 that you're willing to give me, that’s okay too, but that’s my lowest offer.</span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">No one ever really knows when their time will come, and I think that’s a good thing because, there is a sense of bliss in being able to take life for granted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This year, I have been stripped of that bliss and have come face to face with the fear of my own mortality, and I am holding on ever so tightly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will sing and laugh and rejoice and celebrate Christmas as though it is my last and I will bask in the moments…and then I will cry without doubt because that’s what I do when I’m grateful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I will be ever so grateful to God and the Universe and whatever powers that be, that no matter how many more I may have, I am celebrating another Christmas, right here, right now….and oh how I LOVE Christmas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Yes, I do. </span>And I am ever so thankful. </span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Sweet Dreams and Always GOOD Dreams,</span></strong></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">~Renae~</span></strong></div></div></div>renaedarlenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14430692292916265420noreply@blogger.com1