Signing Off

My blog is two and a half years old. That means so is my breast cancer. The odds of triple negative breast cancer recurring after two years are very slim. I find myself struggling with what to do with this gift of time and opportunity but I think that is an entirely different blog. I would like to travel and explore. I would like to write my memoirs and finish my novel and do something to make a difference in the world. I may not accomplish any of those things but its time to decide which of those things matter enough to command my energy and attention. Now that I can start thinking longer term, who knows what the next two and a half years will bring? What I know for sure is that my blog has served its purpose for now and its time to move on to other things. Thanks for reading and sharing this experience with me.

If you haven’t won the prize, redefine the prize

Here We Go Again

Here we go again. That’s what I thought any way. More lumps. This time I had no desire to write about it. I kept thinking I might and then I didn’t. This time the news was good. After a mammogram, an ultra sound and a needle biopsy, the results are in--fatty necrosis. Couldn’t I at least get a diagnosis without the word “Fat” in it? I should just be grateful that the word cancer isn’t in it and leave well enough alone.

The good news came last week and I was elated. Now I have crashed for no reason I can determine. I feel wiped out. My friend Ginny suggests that I was geared up for battle and when they cancelled the war, I suffered some sort of withdrawal from my heightened preparedness. I guess that’s as good an explanation as any. Maybe I’m in an adrenalin slump.

I keep thinking that I should do something important with this new gift of time. The problem is that I don’t have the strength or energy for anything important. It’s about all I can manage to water my potted plants, putter in the garden a bit and get a meal or two on the table every day. If I’m not “sick” then why don’t I have more energy? It’s depressing and sad. I feel so whiney. I certainly have nothing to whine about. I think the losses of September 11th took a toll on my thinking. I think about all those useful people who were lost and are still missed.

I guess that’s part of the confusion for me. It didn’t make sense to me ten years ago and it still doesn’t. What a horrible waste of potential. Of course that doesn’t mean I should necessarily feel guilty for surviving and yet somehow I do.

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Today I Am 71

Holy cow! How did that happen?

I am in a beautiful rental house on Lopez Island in the San Juan Islands with my friend Kizzie. We are on a writing retreat which doesn’t stop us from touring the island and enjoying all the sights and shops and eateries. Lopez has a wonderful bakery where they should know us by name already. We visited Agate Beach and hiked out to Shark Reef. We ate Halibut tacos with mango salsa and went to a jazz concert at a local winery. Today we took the ferry to Friday Harbor on San Juan Island and wandered around the shops there. I had a delicious crab BLT at the Downriggers restaurant with a view of the harbor and marina. What a wonderful life they live here. The pace is slow and everyone seems to have time to wave and take time to talk.

We have a lovely view from our rental and have converted the kitchen table into our computer desk. I can write and look up to see the ferry go by as well as numerous small boats and sail ships. The water is a lovely shade of blue and calm with just enough of a breeze to fill the sails of the little ships tacking around the bay. The only sound is the quiet lap of water below our perch on the cliff and the occasional toot from an arriving ferry.

I think I could get used to this. I suppose the charm would diminish when winter arrives and the storms roll in, but even then the view would be beautiful. A quick look at the local real estate magazine reveals that I can only live here if I win the lottery so I will have to settle for an occasional visit and store up sweet island memories of a slower, friendlier life.
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My Grandson is Rated "M"

I visited my grandson Douglas in sunny Arizona last week and got to thinking about all the things kids are exposed to today that we never even imagined when I was young. Kids today hear things and see things that were either forbidden or beyond the imagination of most of my contemporaries—at least until they went to Viet Nam. There’s more blood, violence, sex and verbal trash than I can get my old mind around. And don’t even start with the piercings and tattoos. (Not that Douglas has any--yet.)

When I was 19, my husband went to the San Francisco airport to buy a copy of "Peyton Place" which wasn’t available any place else. It was titillating and everyone was reading it. I found it shocking but now it would be laughable, even to me!

I think “old folks” have been complaining about the youth of the day ever since we lived in caves. “Yeah, the mastodons were bigger when I was learning to hunt. We had to drive them over the cliffs with sticks and now the modern kids have spears. They have no respect for what we went through and no appreciation for us inventing spears. Lazy, darn good for nothings…”

They complained in ancient Rome and American settlers did their share of complaining too. “Oh, yeah, I walked from Boston to Oregon territory and now these kids just want to loaf and live off the fat of the land. Always off fishing or chasing some Indian girl. They don’t know what real hardship is.”

Well, I could go on, but you get the idea. It’s a built-in mechanism that seems as sure as joint deterioration and forgetfulness. Maybe we don’t die of old age but just get sick of our own obsolescence. We need to make way for a new generation of complainers.

Meanwhile, my grandson still enjoys a spirited game of UNO and so all is not lost.

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Accidents Happen

That’s why they call them accidents. We don’t plan screw-ups. We don’t look for them. But somehow they find us and when they do we feel a whole raft of emotions. We feel embarrassed, stupid, mortified, frightened and definitely sobered by the realization that everything can change in an instant. We question our abilities. We wonder if this is the first signs of senility, Alzheimer’s, dementia or whatever our own personal deterioration looks like.

That’s why when we fall we will jump up, brush ourselves off and assure everyone around us that we are FINE. Maybe a small fracture or sprain, but really, just fine! We aren’t losing our balance and coordination. No, that pesky obstacle appeared out of nowhere and ensnared us. We are the victim of outside influences, nothing to do with our impaired abilities whatsoever.

I am well acquainted with falling. I fell twice in Alaska, breaking bones both times. I broke a bone in a fall in Mendocino and a girlfriend had to drive me to Redding to meet with friends there and my husband had to take a bus to Redding to retrieve me and our car. I broke my teeth in a fall in Redding on my way to a weekend with my siblings in Napa Valley. I went anyway, after kind treatment from my friend Donna’s dentist. I broke my glasses when I fell while loading the car for a trip to Alaska to testify at a trial. I fell in Newport while on vacation with my son Jim and his family, racing for mini-donuts as I recall, but I may have been the only one in that race. I’ve broken toes more times than I can count, each time vowing to wear shoes and be more careful. I’ve slipped and slid and suffered more scrapes and bruises than I care to recall. Ok, I’ll concede, maybe I’m just a little bit clumsy.

Yesterday I had my second automobile accident in fifty years of driving. My first accident was a skid on black ice in 1960 that ended up with us upside down in a ditch on the I-70 between Denver and Grand Junction. I got a ticket for being on the wrong side of the road because the highway patrolman said he had to issue a citation at every accident. Jim was just a baby, sleeping in a nest in the back seat, and he ended up without a scratch. My husband and I had seat belt bruises and walked away from the scene under our own power. The car was totaled.

My second auto accident was in 1996. It was also on an icy road, the 1-5 near Tacoma where I worked. One of the other drivers who started the bumper car mess got the ticket that time.

Since that first accident, I have been a careful and competent driver. One accident and no tickets. Until yesterday.

A quick early morning trip to the store changed my excellent record and shook my confidence. I was driving home in the early morning rain and made a perfunctory stop at the red light on Main and Hwy 99 in my home town. As I turned right onto Hwy 99, a grey pick-up truck side-swiped me and damaged the left front end of our little red Acura. We both pulled over and I called 911. A local policeman came and took our statements. He issued a ticket for failure to comply with a traffic control device and there went my 50 year record. Now I have an accident AND a ticket on my driving record.
I am trying to be grateful that no one was hurt and that our deductible is low. Insurance will cover the financial cost of the accident. I’m still not sure what will cover the cost to my ego and confidence. It helped that my husband’s response was calm and reassuring. He tells me I’m still a good driver and that accidents happen. Well, yes, but not to me. Not in cars anyway.

Writers Write

That’s what they say. Writer’s write. It’s not whether or not you are published or paid or have a certificate or a degree. It’s whether or not you put pen to paper or fingers to the keyboard. By that definition, I sometimes despair and think I can’t possibly be a writer.
Writers get up early or stay up late just to capture their thoughts in those moments when everyone else is sleeping and they can pour their soul onto paper or at least onto cyber paper. Writers would rather write than eat, or shop or watch tv. Again, I don’t qualify.
The idea of simply devoting time to writing seems self-indulgent. I should be cleaning something or cooking something or tending the garden. I can write when the chores are done. Except that when the chores are done, I’m too tired to write or the inspiration has fled or I need to check my e-mail.
It seems it’s just not enough to think the thoughts and write things in your head as you fall asleep or take a walk. You have to get it down on paper. Another soul has to hear or read it. Who says? Really, who decides such things?
If I create it, I own it. Even if I can’t remember it the next day, it’s still mine. I have made it so and rolled it around in my head and it matters. At least it matters to me. It may be self therapy or self indulgence, but what difference does that make? I still own it. I write for myself. Not for posterity. Who is this posterity anyway? I don’t know them and don’t really care all that much if they know me. I write for myself and sometimes for my writing group or my blog but if that’s all the further it goes, that’s just fine with me. Write on!

Down Memory Lane in White Buck Shoes

My high school friend Ruth called recently and asked me if I remembered our white buck shoes and the little pillows of white powder that we used to clean them. Of course I do. We powdered our shoes much more frequently than we powdered our noses. Nowadays I suppose those white pillows might rouse more than a little suspicion but back when everyone was swooning over Pat Boone singing “Love Letters in the Sand” or Marty Robbins rendition of “A White Sports Coat and a Pink Carnation”, things were different.

Those little white powder pillows were vital to keeping our white buck shoes looking fresh and were as necessary as the starch we used to keep our net crinolines stiff so they could hold our poodle skirts out at the appropriate angle to show off our petticoats. What’s the point of dancing if you can’t twirl and flounce? Watching American Bandstand kept us clued in to the coolest looks in fashion. Of course we never showed our underwear like some of those girls did, but they were from Philadelphia and were wilder than we would ever dare to be.

Talking to Ruth got me to thinking about the things we took for granted “back then” that would be complete mysteries to most young people today--skate keys for example. We had skates that clamped on to our shoes and we tightened the grips with a skate key. Now kids have skates built into their shoes and can zip around on wheels as easily as they can walk.

When we skated, it was a much more athletic endeavor. Getting the skates on and properly adjusted was just the beginning. We kept the skate key on a string around our neck just in case we needed it to tighten our skates back up when we took a tumble. We skated in a bent over posture with our arms swinging like speed skaters as we navigated the treacherous sidewalks of our neighborhood. We always kept the next patch of lawn in sight in case we had to do an emergency stop. When there wasn’t grass nearby, we got those amazing knee scabs that we usually had in one stage or another of healing. We picked so many scabs off our knees it’s amazing there is anything left but scar tissue. No wonder my knees are so cranky now.

These days I’m sure roller skating must require at least two adults to supervise and bring drinks and snacks as well as the knee and elbow pads and requisite helmet. How dangerously we lived!

I remember wanting loafers with little tassels and a slot for a coin in each one. I wanted them so badly that I swore that the much too tight shoes fit me. They didn’t have my correct size and I wasn’t about to risk waiting for another day and getting stuck with ugly leftover shoes. Deferred gratification was never something that appealed to me.

Those loafers used to be called Penny Loafers. I guess that was because people put a penny in the coin hole opening. But being a modern girl, I needed dimes. That was in case you had to make an emergency call from a pay phone, of course. You don’t see many of those any more now that everyone can carry their own private little pay phone everywhere with them.

On Saturday nights I went to the movies with my girlfriends. We would pool our change so that we could put a buck’s worth of gas in my old Oldsmobile and go to Dollar Night at the drive-in movie. We could hang the speaker in our car window and turn it up or down depending on how interesting the movie was. We brought snacks from home because the fifteen cents for a bag of popcorn and dime for a coke seemed ridiculous. After all, the going rate for baby sitting was 25 cents an hour. By the time we bought gas and paid our admission, we were reluctant to part with any more of our hard earned money. We brought pillows and blankets from home because nights in the San Francisco Bay area could get chilly and we spent the evening eating and talking and sometimes even watched the movie.

One of my favorite movie treats was Necco wafers. I hadn’t yet discovered my passion for chocolate and thought the best test of a candy was how long you could make it last. A package of Neccos could last a long time if you tried holding it in your mouth without breaking the thin wafer for as long as possible. Of course it was hard for me to go very long without talking so I usually gave in a broke the wafer. Once it’s broken there isn’t much to do but chew it up and start over. I can’t say they had much flavor at all, even though I favored the pink and brown ones, but they certainly did last.

Hair was not an important part of my teen routine. We washed our hair once a week and put it in rollers and that was it. I wore my hair in a pony tail for most of my high school years. My hair could retain the shape of a pony tail even without a rubber band. My hair knew its place. I didn’t even get a professional haircut until I was earning a full time paycheck.

My sisters’ generation had a totally different experience with hair. They were in high school in the 60s when hair was teased into extravagant bouffants. Their school pictures show every hair firmly in place, more like a helmet than hair. The hair was teased into high confections and then wrapped in toilet paper at night so they wouldn’t have to start all over the next morning. They could use the time they saved creating exotic eyes with lots of shadow, liner and mascara.

My best efforts at teasing my hair were dismal failures. My hair always looked more aggravated than teased. For most of the 60s every professional haircut included a through teasing after the curlers came out. No matter how I protested, my hair would get teased and I would go home to coax out the tangles and tame things back to my liking.

Another girly ritual I could never master was the plucking. I knew my eyebrows needed taming but those tweezings hurt. I marveled that my girl friends could pluck away and scarcely flinch. We would plop down on blankets in the grass and use magnifying mirrors and the harsh light of day to show the brows at their worst. The other girls would spread baby oil on their arms and legs and pluck away. I would only pluck two or three hairs before I gave up, retreated to the shade and buried my nose in a book. I hoped that my big framed glasses covered enough of my face that no one would notice my maverick brows. I know I was rationalizing, a talent I perfected over the years, but I would always rather read than pluck.

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Breast Reconstruction

Yesterday I had surgery to repair damage to my right breast caused by my cancer surgery and subsequent radiation. At the same time, I had my left breast reduced to conform more closely in size and shape to the reconstructed right breast.

At first, I didn’t want to write about my decision to have this surgery. I was afraid that my choice might be perceived as vanity. After all, who cares? The only ones will even see my breasts, besides myself, are my husband and my doctors. Why should I put myself through a painful procedure for such a limited audience? I could just buy my usual 42D bra and stuff the right side to make things appear balanced. It’s been a very long time since I stuffed a bra, but there is no shame in that.

The thing is I want to be balanced and not merely appear balanced. I don’t like being lopsided and would prefer that my breasts jiggle in relative unison when I get on the treadmill. What’s so terrible about that? Being a big breasted girl from a family of big breasted girls, I was never able to get into the joy of running. Running was never a pleasure for me. While other girls were pumping their arms as they ran around the track, I was crossing my arms across my generous chest to reduce the painful bouncing. Of course I’m not suggesting that I will take up running now but a brisk pace on the treadmill with minimal bouncing sounds desirable to me.

I know there are women who live with the after effects of lumpectomies or even double mastectomies and don’t seem to give it a thought. Or, if they do, the thought of undergoing anther surgery discourages them. I certainly had my own pre-surgery jitters. Any time someone is going to cut into and remove some of your flesh, it’s more than a little worrisome.

I have heard from several sources that breast reduction can alleviate neck and back pain although I’m not sure if my neck and back pain are at all related to my breast size and weight. Still, it seems like as good a reason as any to get them reduced.

So, there are many factors involved when making a decision like this. After weighing (small pun intended) all of them, or as many as I could think of, it comes down to what I want. That’s what my husband tells me. I like the idea of having my breasts even and buying a bra that fits both sides. Maybe that’s all the justification I need.

Meanwhile, my husband is pampering me and managing my meds-—Cephalexin (antibiotic), Celebrex (anti-inflammatory), Sinecch (homeopathic to reduce bruising) and, best of all, Vicodin. My pain levels are modest and I have a license to be lazy.

Life is Good!
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Magazines Are Bad For Me!

I’m beginning to think that magazines are bad for me. Books are still alright because you don’t expect the truth from them. Books are full of exaggerations and adjustments to the truth—even the non-fiction ones. If they were truly factual, wouldn’t they be called that? Shouldn’t our books be fiction and factual? Why didn’t they call them factual and non-factual? That would make as much sense. But this is about magazines, not books, so I will leave that discussion for another time.

Magazines make me feel discontent. The people in magazines have such enviable lives. They go on wonderful vacations and live in beautiful homes with gorgeous gardens. They live in a happy state of easy cooperation and harmony. Everything is organized and spotless in their homes. The garden flourishes and looks like a sub-tropical paradise. Of course there’s a kitchen garden so they can pick fresh cilantro, basil and peppers for their creative meals. They can decorate their house with their own home-grown flowers and ferns. They entertain with such style. Their food is fabulous--imaginative and colorful but, of course, healthy. The table is decorated with flair and panache. The guests are a fascinating mix of people who smile delightedly and toast the host and hostess with enthusiasm for their creative entertaining. Who are these people anyway?

What happened to recipes for pot roast and apple pie with a picture of mom, dad, three kids (one in a high chair) and a dog nearby? The family looked happy to have a meal on the table. None of the kids were crying and mom didn’t look tired so we knew there was an element of fiction involved but at least this was a meal we could probably put together even if the kitchen in the background wouldn’t be quite so tidy.

A recent Better Homes and Gardens magazine had an article titled “Labor of Love” about a couple named Don and Chris who live in Snohomish, Washington. They are a lovely couple and love to garden together. Chris admits that she can’t resist perennials and every time she goes to the nursery she brings more home with her. Don indulges her just as she indulges his passion for roses and so their garden is lush and crowded and they like it that way. The article ends like this:

Nearly every summer evening, as the fragrance of petunias and Nicotiana scent the air, Chris and Don move quietly among the beds, weeding and pruning until the gold light of dusk fades from the sky.

Really? These people are smiling and indulging each other—no questioning about why more plants are bought or where they are to go or who will weed and feed—just moving about in heavenly accord. All they lack are filled wine glasses so they can toast their enviable amiability. Maybe that will come later after they pick their fresh herbs and grill chicken breasts and veggies on their covered deck with the obligatory happy guests. These are the same happy guests we see in every sort of commercial for everything from appliances to beer. Always a nice mixed race, mixed gender, age balanced group. Sometimes there is a child or pet in the background—deep in the background--unless of course they have made an amusing mess that can be instantly solved by the product being advertised.

So now it’s not just magazines, but advertisements in general that I’m complaining about. These articles and advertisements have got me observing couples I see in stores. I’m watching for that easy companionability I see where couples are eager to learn from each other about the relative merits of various cereals and sandwich spreads. If there is a disagreement, it is always humorous and easily resolved.
In real life, at least if Walmart and Safeway are real life, it’s not so easy. People get impatient with each other and with their children. Real people don’t stroll through the aisles amusing each other. Usually, one wants to get done and the other wants to compare labels and prices. Some people say unpleasant things to each other as if they were protected by a privacy envelope. I often wonder how they treat each other at home where they have real privacy.

Of course I know there are couples who live their daily lives with amicable good humor. I’ve seen it. They do everything together and dote on each other. There are probably trade-offs that I don’t see, but whether there are or not, they have mastered the art of paddling along in serene companionability. How do they manage that? Do they talk about it and agree on their rules of engagement or does it just happen? How come no one thinks about these things when they are in love’s first blush--when you want to be together every minute and never run out of things to talk about and agree on everything? When does the tide turn and it becomes safe to say “I don’t like those shows you watch”? Or, “I don’t like this meal—that friend—the way you load the dishwasher”? Darned if I remember--it just happens.

We claim we want the truth in our relationships, but do we really? Don’t we want to know if our pot roast sucks because we added carrots (which our partner hates) or left out the onions (which he loves)? Of course we do. Do we want to be in a phony baloney relationship where no one says what they want? Of course not. What sort of life would that be? On the other hand, just how much truth can we really bear? Truths about our appearance, our habits, our long held beliefs or our method of doing things may not be so welcome. What we do need is a little grace and indulgence. We can tell each other about the things we can change and accept the things we can’t change. AA gets it right. We need the wisdom to know the difference.

If we can muster the grace to forgive our partner’s flaws, wouldn’t we both be better off? Romantic customs hold that one gets on one’s knees to propose marriage. We truly might be better served if we got on our knees every anniversary to beg forgiveness and give it in return. Of course we don’t need to wait for an anniversary to make amends and try for a fresh start but if we don’t do it at all—ever—then where are we?

Forgiveness is a gift best given without fanfare. Apologize out loud and forgive in silence—in your heart. Let it flow like love which, in fact, it is. Being stingy with forgiveness is withholding love. My former mother-in-law was slow to forgive and it hurt. My brother-in-law once said, “She never lets you forget that she forgave and forgot”.

If we can’t forgive and let go of perceived offenses, what do we do then? Do we wait for the absolute end of the rope when truth turns into a weapon of relationship destruction? Do we seek counseling? Do we settle for what we have and try to focus on the good parts? How do we sort out what is worth discussion and what would be best left unsaid? How do we even bring the topic up? Too often, they seem to come ricocheting out of nowhere or angle in sideways in a discussion about something else entirely. They even get inserted into conversations when other people are around--maybe because it feels safer that way. But the point gets made even if there is no opportunity for response or real dialog about it. Then it gets quickly buried again.

Why should marital conversation feel like such a minefield? Shouldn’t it be easier to speak your mind after many years of marriage? Yes, it should. But what happens is that when things are good, it doesn’t seem worth the effort to bring up anything less than pleasant and when things are bad, it feels too risky. Perhaps we need a little signal flag we can put on the table when we want to raise a topic for discussion or a handkerchief we can pull out of our hip pocket and throw on the ground when our partner has committed a foul. Yes, we need better signals.

Or, maybe, we should just stop subscribing to magazines. I could at least try to remember that magazines are fiction and nobody really lives like the people depicted in them. Meanwhile, I’m going to read a good book where people have real problems and would be grateful for the life I lead. I don’t even care that they are fictional people. I’m confident they would trade their life and problems for mine in a heartbeat and I’m equally confident I would turn them down.

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Dancing with NED

I have danced this happy dance before but that doesn’t make it any less exhilarating. It’s that heady feeling you get when the tests are done and the word comes back—No Evidence of Disease (NED). Then you can let out the breath you didn’t even know you were holding and inhale the elixir that is life.

After the first hours or so of gratitude and elation, I tend to resume my usual worrying ways. What am I supposed to do that is so important that I have been spared to live longer than I expected?

Today was my follow up mammogram. It has been almost two years since I discovered the lump that started my most recent bout with cancer. I realize just how often I have taken it for granted that my mammograms would be just one of those routine precautions that responsible women take. “Make Time for the Girls” and all that. Yet, even with a previous diagnosis of cancer, a new one still came as a shock. I was braced for a recurrence--not a brand new cancer. Once I got past my unreasonable expectations that I couldn’t get a different cancer, it all fell into a familiar regimen of surgery and treatments. I got into patient mode, stepped onto the treadmill and followed all the standard protocols. It worked for me in the past and so I did all that was recommended and hoped for the best possible outcome—NED.

Now, here I am, two years out and dancing with NED again.

It’s a very good feeling but it makes me wonder if I am supposed to do something in exchange for the blessing of finding myself once again cancer free. What do we owe the universe for the blessings we enjoy? Does God expect repayment of some kind or other? In my particular denomination, we believe in Grace, not works. So does it follow that if we can’t “earn” our way into heaven, we can’t repay the generous gifts we receive by doing earthly penance in the form or charitable deeds or kind acts? If that's so, what’s the point of doing good in the world? Is it enough to do good things just for the sake of doing them? Or maybe just for the internal satisfaction of being a good person? Or at least as good a person as you are able to be? I have wrestled with this question before and my conclusion has been that we should strive to be the best person we can be if only because we have to look at ourselves in the mirror and face ourselves in our dreams.

My idea of hell, if there is such a place or thing, would be to have to endlessly see all the mistakes and careless words and actions we have inflicted on others and feel what they felt. I imagine it as a grainy sort of bad U-Tube production that plays on an endless loop inside my eyeballs. That all by itself is enough to keep me in line most of the time.

But just NOT doing bad things is not at all the same as doing good things. It is merely protection from my private version of hell. What if by doing good things you can create your own version of heaven? What if you get to see the fruits of your good actions and know that you made a difference? Some people say that at the time of your death, your life flashes before you. It seems to have been said enough times to make me think there must be some small grain of truth in the idea.

I have also read that in the moments before death, the brain releases a huge load of endorphins that eliminate pain and create a feeling of euphoria. It is this effect that accounts for the many near death stories of seeing loved ones, experiencing comfort, warmth and other positive sensations. It may also be responsible for the perception that one’s life flashes before them. If this does happen, wouldn’t it be wonderful if that life was filled with good memories and satisfying accomplishments? There is almost nothing we can do about the bad memories or failings in our life so far. We can use the AA model and make amends where possible but while that might ease our conscience it wouldn’t change the fact that we have those bad memories.

Maybe if we layer enough good memories over the bad ones, it might work as a sort of “majority rule” experience and overwhelm the negative memories and experiences. Unfortunately, I know that doesn’t work and I have the bad dreams to prove it. So what can we do? What should we do? And does any of it matter anyway?

Here is where I have to fall back on a conclusion I have reached in the past. I would rather live as if there was a heaven and be wrong than to live as if there was nothing after this life and be wrong about that. Even if there is no great end of life accounting or heavenly reward for good behavior, we still have to account to ourselves and knowing the torture I can inflict on myself for even small transgressions, I think I would prefer to err on the side of good. It seems like a good way to live—to try doing more good and less harm. I really can’t see the down side--unless it’s my own overactive guilt-o-meter. I probably feel guilty about the wrong things anyway and hope those final moments will unravel all my misconceptions and set me straight. I do hope I get to see the people I love again, even if it is an endorphin induced illusion. And I hope all my amends are accepted whether I have spoken them aloud or not.

So I will be happy to dance with NED again and allow myself to feel the need to pay back a little to a universe that has been kind to me yet again.

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Zippidy Do Dah

ZIP DAY

If zip lining wasn't on my bucket list, it should have been!What an adrenaline rush! What a physical challenge! What an extremely crazy thing to do at 70+

Thanks to my friend Tami, I did a Kauai zip line adventure and survived! After we got outfitted in our harness, cable clamps and hard hats, we piled into a van to drive us up to our start point. There were thirteen in our group, plus two zip guides. When we were getting acquainted while we waited for our first “bunny slope” zip ride, two of the women stated that they wanted to celebrate their 60th birthdays by doing something daring and adventurous and they chose zip lining as their Birthday Adventure.
I thought, sure, why not? The zip line does all the work. It’s not like scuba diving or parasailing where you could drown. Or like sky diving or hang gliding where you could crash and die. There are so many adventurous ways to die, but zip lining does not seem like one of them. At least not to me. That was before I started thinking about the embarrassment of getting stranded mid zip if you don’t have enough momentum to reach the platform. In that case they zip you a rope and you have to drag yourself in to the platform. Oh, great! With my upper body strength? That could take a while. Of course if you get going too fast you can slam into the platform and get some dandy bruises or even broken bones to show for your day on the zip lines. Neither of those things happened to me or to anyone in our group.
We all made our take offs and landings on the platforms. Maybe we weren’t as graceful and casual about it as our guides, but we finished the course with our dignity more or less intact. It wasn’t the zipping that daunted me. It was the “mild to moderate” hiking between zip line platforms that had me thinking about how embarrassing it would be to have to be hauled off the mountain if I had a stroke or heart attack. As I huffed and puffed up the rugged terrain, I questioned my own sanity. Then after I got to the platform and caught my breath (both from the exertion and the fantastic view) I was ready to go again. The thrill of zipping was worth the agony of climbing.
We walked through high meadows liberally dotted with cow patties. The adventure took place at Princeville Ranch, a working cattle ranch. Other adventure options included horseback riding and swimming along with the zip line. Tami and I thought the swim sounded pretty good about half way through our zipping, but one of our guides reminded us that this was a cattle ranch and all the water from the meadows runs down the hillsides and into the creeks, steams and swimming holes. Oh, yeah. Not such pure swim water.
My friend Tami and I did nine zip lines and walked across a fairly thrilling suspension bridge which spanned a creek and a waterfall. The final zip line was called King Kong and was a worthy finale. We climbed up a ramp to a 26 ft high tower and then zip lined side by side for 1200 feet. It was an exhilarating finish to an exciting afternoon. By the time we hiked back to the van, I was exhausted but that feeling passed and the giddy sense and accomplishment remained.
Am I glad I did it? Absolutely! Would I do it again? Sure, but maybe I need to train a bit for the hiking parts.



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Check Up - Check In

I had my four month check up over a week ago and haven’t shared the results for reasons that aren’t entirely clear to me yet. My blood counts are normal. For the first time in two years—everything looks NORMAL. I’m not anemic. My white counts and red counts are ok. My iron level is fine.

After the first rush of relief and elation, I began to worry that with all that “normal” going on I should have more energy. Maybe my lack of energy is just a bad habit. Maybe it’s just plain laziness. Or maybe I’ve taken the whole retirement thing too far. After I retired for the second time, I volunteered, I visited friends, I gardened and I worked to raise money for our charity. How did all those things fall by the way? It must be time to pick up the reins and move back on the path to normal. (Or at least whatever I decide the “new normal” is for me.)

Meanwhile, I am vacationing on Kauai, with temperatures in the 80’s and humidity to match. It’s ok to be lazy here—to watch the surf and clouds, to admire the resolute surfers who swim out again and again just for the chance to catch a perfect wave, to walk on the beach or sleep nine hours straight. So many choices. We can go sight seeing, play cards, drink tropical smoothies or explore the many flavors of Lappert’s Local ice cream. We get to marvel as the mother whales teach their babies to spout, roll and jump out of the water.

It’s all good and it’s perfectly normal to relax and enjoy another day in paradise. My "New Normal" can wait a little while longer.

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