Kilauea, chemo, and the dishwasher that wasn't

Today is the first day of school which means summer as we know it is over, never mind that there is still an entire month to go before autumn officially begins. Apparently nobody told Mother Nature to check her calendar, or else she also runs on school schedules, because it was a brisk 62 degrees with a playful breeze this morning. Liam made a quick change from shorts to sweat pants, all the kids left in hoodies, and I just about froze my poor naked bean my first trip out to the bus.

Which was understandably late by a few minutes. First day of school often has hiccups, I get it. The big kids had almost declared, "we missed it; it's too late" when I sent them back down the driveway. Within two more minutes, their bus trundled up to take them away.

We have a sophomore this year.

And a seventh grader.

No, PaPa, they're not 10 and 7. We can just hear you laughing.

Then it was the third grader's turn to catch his bus. 

Someone was absolutely delighted to learn the nature trick of using a stem to pop the flower off of a plant (and into unsuspecting victim's hair, face, etc) and was practicing earnestly. His bus is supposed to collect him at about quarter after 8 and we were out there before 10 after. We waited until twenty til 9 when Dada, bless his heart, decided to take him to school. I have no idea if we missed it because it was really early despite being late the first round or if it was really late from being stuck farther back in the queue. Again, first day is rife with snafus, I get it, but tomorrow is my last chemo and I will be half an hour away and therefore unable to take him if the bus fails...

When we look back on this summer, especially as I am terrible at remembering dates, it will be the summer Kilauea erupted and kept going, the summer I had chemo (which also felt at times like it would be never ending; I would swear it has been 100 days since the last round when tomorrow will be exactly 3 weeks, like every other round has been), and the summer we were without a dishwasher. The one that was part of the house when we bought it almost five years ago started limping along this winter and early spring. The button for "smart wash" stopped working, so I switched to using "normal wash." That one was next to give up the ghost, but "light wash" would light up... alas, then the "start" button quit. 

*sigh* 

Nothing to be done once your "start" button goes, folks.

So there we were at the  Memorial Day weekend sales. We picked out a spiffy (we thought) new black one with a towel bar which would be delivered in a reasonable time as it was a special order. Said day comes and goes, no dishwasher. Eventually one shows up and has no towel bar, but at this point we decided we didn't care that much and we were happy to have assistance washing dishes for a family of five plus visitors. It's installed, installers leave, I load it, add soap, push buttons, and get "E 24". Google tells us that's an error regarding draining. Great.

After some phone calls and more days, that dishwasher is unloaded, dishes washed by hand, and the installers eventually come to remove it. They realize that the second new dishwasher they've brought to our home is not black but stainless steel. Oh dear. They don't even unload that one but do take the new/old black one sans towel bar which doesn't drain and apologize.

We go back and peruse more dishwashers, select a different brand and model, and now still have the gaping hole in the kitchen where a dishwasher belongs. Carrie is incredulous that she's been washing dishes all summer. First world problems. 

Feel free to place your bets as to whether we will have one by Labor Day or not. I never would have believed that all my chemo would be done before we received a working dishwasher. I guess time is relative. 

*Update* Ugh, sorry all the photos spewed into the middle. I guess that's why I don't blog after bedtime generally! Apparently they tweaked the bus schedule and Damon is to be picked up at 8:04 instead of 8:14. Now we know. Cross your fingers tomorrow is smoother! And while you're praying over my hopefully very last chemo ever, toss in some prayers for the good folks in Hawaii that Hurricane Lane downgrades and isn't as absolutely awful as it could be, please. It hasn't been the best year, that's for sure. 

This old man

Damon had the obligatory back-to-school, meet-your-teacher, drop-off-your-school-supplies meeting tonight and I had the brilliant idea to attempt to get groceries afterwards since I only had one kid to wrangle. 

The Aldi trip was fine and fast, and we then only needed a very few things from Walmart. We found our raisins and Dada's aftershave and our vitamins and then I realized we are out of hand soap refill, so we grabbed that. I used two plastic bags, one with the soap and aftershave in it and the other held the raisins and the vitamins. 

Being a mom, I gave him the lighter one. He protested, telling me, "hey! That one is more heavy. I'm going to be a man soon!" 

I asked if he meant like, tomorrow, or next year, or what. 

"I don't care. I'm going to be a man." 

He won. He got the heavy bag. Well played, man-child. 

Postcard to the Undecided

Dear Unmet-Yet-Friend,

I sense you'll be there, hovering just outside the entrance, debating with your Self about joining those already inside. I can hear the argument a little:

In this age of social media, why do we even need reunions? I already know more than I want to about what everyone's kids are doing, where they've been on vacation, what they take pictures of before they eat...

Why did I send in money to see people I haven't seen since the last reunion, or since high school itself?

Why did I wait months to begin working out? Why didn't I get my hair cut? Why did I get my hair cut? Why am I still not any taller?!

What if I have to remind people who I am? What if I am just an unnoticeable now as I was then? Worse perhaps, what if everyone has seen that video or that post and thinks... Whatever it is they think?

Is it too late to leave? Have I been spotted? Can I just sneak out again?

Relax, my yet-unmet-friend. Whatever your issues are, we all have our own. Some of us are really just better at hiding them. Some of us are better at deflection or humor-as-a-shield or sarcasm or are rich enough to pay for what we'd like to fix. Rest assured, we are all dealing with something(s).

For example, peek in that door again. See that bald lady you don't recognize? Sure, she didn't graduate with your class- she married in- but she keeps discreetly (she hopes) slipping out a handkerchief from her great-grandmother Frances to wipe her eyes which keep streaming as a side effect of the meds she's on. She brought a head scarf for in case the air conditioning is cranked up but she's hoping she won't need it. She's looking forward to some time with the handful of folks she's met throughout the years, some who have come unbelievable distances to reconnect. She's got her fingers crossed in her pocket that she won't need to use the facilities for an extraordinary length of time and that, if she does, that she won't stink it up too badly thanks to other side effects of those same meds. She's hoping she won't start yawning at 7 as the shindig only started at 6, not because she's bored or rude, but because she's almost done with chemo and tires easily. 

Her name is Val, and she'd love to meet you. Go ahead in. I promise she won't bite, and she might even surprise you into laughter. She knows that most of us have grown up a fair bit since the original tour of nuttiness that is high school, and she'd love to hear where you fit into it all. 

Take that deep breath, get that chin up, slap your name tag on, and walk in. You can do this. Enjoy tonight!

Warm regards,

The Not-Quite-Crying Baldie :)

Get ready, get set, confessional

I have been procrastinating for days on this post and I still have no idea how to start. I apologize in advance for the vomit-ness to come. I'm tired of crying on the front porch, in the kitchen, in the bathroom, and in the car; I'm hoping that if I get this all out it'll help. And yes, I realize that, as Gandalf tells Merry, Pippin, and Sam, "I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil." It's just that enough is enough for now. I know I'm allowed bad days, hard days, and days of mourning, but watery eyes as a side effect from Perjeta is bad enough without bursting into tears what feels like all the time. Bleh. I want a shirt that says, "there's no crying in breast cancer" but I'm sure someone would be offended...

Since I've never been Catholic, I have no protocol to follow for what goes on in a confessional. I have the general gist that you unload on the poor priest and then he figures out where you go from there. I belong to another camp, though, which is of the belief that only God needs to hear my sins unless others are involved and would need to be reconciled with. This isn't that kind of post anyway. Sorry if anyone was secretly hoping for a list of my sins. They are there and they quite possibly look very much like your own. 

This is more of a Once Upon a Time with very clear snapshots of God's faithfulness throughout, a shaker of Fear whose lid keeps popping off, and assorted other ingredients, whatever happens to be on hand. I don't suppose it helps that I just read a recipe for Hobo Stew, but there you have it.

Once Upon a Time (for those of you who like to keep track, think summer or 1994, and yes, this was way before cell phones and I didn't have an email address yet, either) I went off into the world to work for a Christian camp.  I was the second youngest staff member until one of the cooks left and then I was officially the baby. I was surrounded by a wealth of truly quality people, many I'm still friends with today. They say camp friends are different and they're right. There is a special connection with people you get hot, sweaty, sunburnt, sick, exhausted, filthy, rained on, and overwhelmed with. Those same people you eat foil dinners with in the rain, lament the rust stains in your laundry and hair with, lug the campers who finally made it out into the field to sleep out only to get downpoured on and have to recover everyone and every sodden thing and drag it all back with, encourage homesick campers to give it a real shot before heading home when it may be the longest you yourself has ever been away from home, and other assorted stories. Countless stories. Hilarious quotes (sometimes) taken out of context and added to poster boards in the staff lounge. Everyone helping the other finish whatever job needed done because for the summer you were a family. 

That's how I got to know Mot. We had three Toms on staff that year, so somehow this particular Tom got his name turned backwards to become Mot. It was my night off, which sounds glamorous until you realize (or remember) that a night off entailed 4 hours once a week. Campers arrived Sunday afternoon and stayed until Saturday morning, then the next bunch arrived 24 hours later and you started a new week. Since there was so little weekend time off, once a week you had a night off, and usually the other days you got a 2 hour block of time to tackle things like showers, laundry, junk food, whatever needed done. Nights off and weekends were the times you could physically leave camp.  Otherwise, you were with your campers. 

At any rate, I didn't have a car at camp and didn't have any desire to leave anyway. I had been having a fabulous time with my new friends/family, with the incredible amount of Stuff I was learning- the songs, the games, the skills, the processes behind the magic and fun of being a camper- and I'd been raised to help where I could (thanks Mommee & Daddee!) which is fun anyway when you're doing whatever it is that needs done with your friends. 

All day and maybe previous days some of the guys had been digging a deep hole outside the dining hall. I'm sure there was a purpose for it, piping or something, but I don't remember now. I do remember the guys being in the hole and being filthy and sweaty and surely uncomfortable but not complaining. They were joking around and enjoying each other's company. I have no idea how long they'd known each other. It was my second time there but my first time was only a week long the previous summer and I don't know who was outside of the particular group I worked with that first week. I'm sure if I asked around I could find out, but it doesn't matter that much. They were having fun while doing a difficult, hot, potentially thankless job. 

I'm guessing that they worked through dinner to get the project finished that last night and that's how there were post-dinner dishes which needed done. Mot and I ended up as companions at the pot sink, just chatting away, learning more about each other, hanging out while doing the work. He mentioned that he was impressed that I'd be in there doing dishes on a night off. I explained pretty much what I said two paragraphs ago. It was fun for me to get to know someone I didn't know well. Mot would be getting married mid-summer and would then be leaving camp to go be a husband and live a real life. That would leave a male staff opening. I suppose it has something to do with so many young women becoming teachers and seeing camp as a great place to get experience, but we seemed to often be short on guys. 

The summer before when I'd been there just one week, I met a guy named Kelly. He was working on staff again this particular year and had the foresight to keep calling home to one of his younger brothers, "hey, Mot's going to be leaving and we're gonna need another guy." The brother kept refusing, essentially saying, "I don't want to waste my summer at church camp." Kelly persisted, though, and to make a long story short, he wore the brother down enough where he declared, "fine, I'll come help for one week and then I'm out!"

That reluctant brother did indeed show up, worked the week, and finished out the summer with our staff. Turns out he was pretty good at the job! Then he returned the next year, the year after that, and one final year after that. He asked me to marry him. I said yes and here we are, 19 years, multiple moves, three kids, and breast cancer later. I'm pretty fond of him. 

Mot and Dawn's wedding was the first wedding we attended together, the first of many. A lot of you just had a flashbulb go off over your heads. Those of you who worked with us already knew where this was headed... 

Dawn passed away one week ago from pneumonia while fighting breast cancer that returned and spread to her brain and her lungs. I mentioned about camp friends being special. We've only spoken a handful of times in the 24 years we've known each other just because life had us in different places. As soon as I posted about my diagnosis, she reached out to me to answer questions and offer support. This amazing woman, with her fabulous husband and three kids of their own, is an integral part of our story. Without their marriage, I most likely would never have even met my husband. That's a God-is-faithful thing, and a Kelly-can-be-persistent thing. I can't imagine how different my life would be, where I'd be, who I'd be.  And now they are left with this hole in their lives where Dawn should be. And my heart breaks.

And Fear enters the cracks. She'd beat breast cancer before. Their elder daughter also beat her own cancer. It's a humbling, sobering reminder that this life is not fair and to be careful making long term decisions because we really don't know what's headed down the pike at us. I can't tell you how terrifying it is to be a mom and think that you may not be there for your kids. I'm sure she was terrified. But she also kept giving praise and living a true faith that pointed others to the reason she could be positive. And yet there's Joy: her son married his bride in Dawn's hospital room, and when I read that my heart broke a little more. I can't begin to imagine what her family has lived in the last few months. And I'm scared half to death that it could happen to me. 

Here's where things start to unravel (only if they were cohesive and fluid until now, that is. Buckle up.)

One of my very best friends in this life was a nurse on an oncology floor for a while and she encourages me that she feels chemo is the hardest part of the whole situation. I keep telling her I'm scared of surgery. I've read plenty of women say that the waiting and the fear leading up to the surgery is far and away worse than the actual surgery and I hope to be able to believe it. But the fact is that they are going to have to cut off at least one of my body parts! Granted, it's done its job, but still. Try telling yourself in the mirror that someone is physically going to cut off one of your body parts and see how that goes. Eeeek to nth power. 

Our family saw "The Greatest Showman" in the theater, whenever that was. I only know it was before the routine mammogram and all the ensuing chaos. Even then, though, with most things seemingly fine in the world, the song "This Is Me" broke my heart and sent it flying at the same time. I could see the incredible potential in that song as a fight song, as a banner of any kind of self-pride or betterment, for anyone who has ever felt stuck on the fringe for whatever reason. Every time I hear it I start to leak. It's such a powerful and in-your-face vibe that I love but it breaks me that I would ever need to be a warrior. Or that I could be glorious. What would it look like to be glorious? Dada and I have this conversation about the word "gorgeous" and how he means it every time he tells me and how I feel like if I've gone through all the trouble of pulling out all the stops and he calls me gorgeous that's one thing but when I have morning breath and eye gunk and bedhead and he says it, I take issue. Clearly these are not the same thing. Right?!

Valerie means strong, strong-willed, or strong spiritual purpose depending on who you talk to. I've often felt like my parents misnamed me, (sorry, you guys). With the possibility of while giving birth three times, I've not felt strong. I hate working out. I've often declared I'd love to have a more toned body but I'm just not into doing the work required to get it there. And this is not the part of the story where you all remind me I'm the skinny girl and pep me up with how good I look; I'm just speaking the truth. I'm not particularly strong-willed. My kids are, which causes me endless frustration and opportunities to refocus on the "God must have an awesome plan for them in which they'll need this characteristic!" So perhaps there is something to this strong spiritual purpose part. Maybe by me laying it all out here someone somewhere can breathe a sigh of relief and say, "oh, meeeee too!" They can know that all of the tears and rages and wild laughter and overwhelment (I am coining that right now- that's a Val Original- I'm claiming it) is normal and that it's okay to feel that way. But as we say at our wonderful church, "it's okay to not be okay, just don't stay that way." Have the tantrum and go do the next thing. Even if you leak through it. This is not the new normal, this is the new temporary normal. 

Here I sit on the front porch with the neckline and left sleeve of my shirt soaked from my tears, with my bald head and tiny little hairs which are trying to make a comeback, with my cracked heart and six crumpled tissues. I thought that five would be enough but apparently I underestimated. I mentioned to Dada the other day that I wondered what it would look like if we all just really lived like we were secure in our salvation. As in, yes, I'm going to take care of myself, of course, but I am also going to live my life and take some risks and reach out and touch people because what can they do to me? When I really get that my soul is secure because there is a God and he is good, why am I afraid of what anyone will think? I'm getting these beautiful scarves and bandannas and head wraps from all directions and I love them and their senders and I am trying them out and thank you, but goodness, I figured out a long time ago that they're not for the patient. They're for everyone else who may be uncomfortable because to see a bald woman insinuates that there is something wrong with her, and what if it's contagious? What if it's not, but I'm uncomfortable and/or afraid of saying the wrong thing, so I'll say nothing? 

Guess what they played and sang in church last Sunday when the message was about potential? "This Is Me," and there I was, leaking yet again, with my bald head. Perfect! A woman smiled at me after church and I smiled back and continued on my way. She chased me down and told me she admired my confidence! Maybe she'd have told me she liked my head wrap if I'd been wearing one, but maybe she felt my baldness was courageous. Truthfully, it was just really hot and I didn't feel like picking one now that I have so many to choose from, thanks to all of you, hehe. But she was the brave one to approach a stranger who obviously has some kind of Issue and strike up a conversation. Maybe this post needed to wait over the weekend so that I could have that encounter and tie everything together... 

Tomorrow is the plastic surgery consultation to see if I'd like to go that route. Like is probably not the right word. Neither is want or desire. I told a friend today I'd like to wake up and have the surgery and all the decisions made and over with! Another friend's mantra is "we can do hard things." Where I would be without this village of mine doesn't even bear thinking about. Thank you all for the bandannas and cards and food and texts and your incredible love. I know without a doubt that I'm to be steeping in how loved I am. 

But please be praying. Pray for wisdom and peace. I have no idea what to do or how to choose. No particular decision seems to bring any more peace as of right now; maybe it will tomorrow when I have more information. And if you're interested in long-haul prayer requests, please be lifting up Mot and Dawn's kiddos, Nicholas, Marina, and Natalie and their extended family as they face life knowing their mom is free of pain and disease and that she's Home, but missing her tremendously all the same. And for us as we face three kiddos of our own heading back in a few weeks to three separate schools worth of germs to bring home! We have almost all of our supplies, but none of us have the mental fortitude right now to be excited about it starting already/yet. It's getting to be that time of the summer when everyone is sick of each other and of the rules and of the suggestions-turned-law over earlier bedtimes and earlier risings in preparation for the ungodly 6 and 7 AM alarms that start this month. I'm not ready. Pray for an attitude change for me that I can be what they need me to be. Pray that food tastes worth eating, that my system Down There gets its act together and realizes there IS middle ground between diarrhea and constipation, and most of all, please pray against fear. Thank you, all! 

And for the record, crying on the porch is way better than crying in the hammock.