This is what an EEG looks like

I've been musing about a game we played at camp called, "I Have Never." You're supposed to tell the truth. Everyone is in a circle with an It in the center. It declares, "I have never _____" and they fill in the blank with something they've never done. Whoever else that applies to also leaves their spot in the circle and everyone scurries to find an open spot/chair/whatever and whoever is left becomes the new It. 

I used to say, "I have never been to Disney." It was true. I didn't go until I was married with three kids when my sweet hubby's whole family went together. 

Now I can no longer say, "I've never had an EEG."

I am smiling under the mask (made by the wonderful Annmarie) as my kind, chatty tech Christy prepped me. It involves me doing... absolutely nothing other than coming in with clean hair, haha! My kind of test! No fasting, no needles, WOOHOO!

She told me exactly what to expect before she even started fastening things to me. First off, she measured my head and figured out where she'd need to put the electrodes. She used a waxy crayon-like marker to denote where all the connections would be made. Then she swabbed me with a cold cleanser of some sort and started attaching the sticky parts with a paste. She said they used to use, back in the day, something similar to rubber cement which was awful to get cleaned off and made it look like you had dandruff for three days post-test. I'm always glad for advances in the medical field, haha!

So here's me all stickered up with my wires attached. The two on my chest are electrodes for my heart measurements. Dada mused that it looked like a nightmare to untangle and she laughed and commented that, "yes, it can be a spaghetti nightmare if you're not careful when you're cleaning them!"

For this particular EEG, which happens in the sleep lab, for the first several minutes all I had to do was open and close my eyes a few times and then keep them closed. What a great test for a mom to have to take! Christy even told me that if I fell asleep that it would be perfectly fine. She had me relax completely for several minutes in the quiet dark, I suppose to establish a baseline. While I was relaxing, I rambled around camp in my mind. I started up the hill at the pool where I realized how many pine needles there were on the ground as I waited for everyone to collect their towels and make it out of the pool house to join their group. Then we roamed, some campers sprinting, some lallygagging down to the camp store, and from there my memories took me into the kitchen where I relived some fun times washing pots and pans with Mot, one of the only times I really got to spend with him before he got married, and with Dan Dan the Marine Man as he sang alternate lyrics to the "Chicken Dance" which had me crying with laughter, and with Renee as she exclaimed, "the Hobart ate my scrubbie!" 

I could have reminisced all day, but that part of the test finished. 

Next, she used a strobe light that strobed at different speeds for a few minutes with breaks in between. My eyes were to stay closed, thankfully. Even in the movies, like "The Incredibles", this kind of lighting is not my favorite, but is doable. 

The final part of the test is hyperventilating. For three minutes, I was to breathe very deeply. That's a little harder than just sitting there, but I kept thinking, "I've been exercising; I can do this!" She told me, "you're doing great. One more minute!" At that point I knew I could finish, though I did feel fizzy, not dizzy. 

The last part is peeling and unwinding everything back off and then, bless her heart, she gently scrubbed off all the paste with nice, warm water. We giggled about how getting your hair washed is always the best part of a hair cut, and then she really laughed when I told her I appreciated that she didn't just use Mom Spit to clean me up, though I guaranteed it would work! She said she was pretty sure that would violate a whole lot of protocol, but also agreed that it would be effective.

Then she towel dried my hair in a rubby-rubby style that reminded me of how Grandmama used to do it when I was small enough to have that done! I felt like a fluffy baby chick when she was finished with me, haha! She walked us back out and wished us well and that was that! 

Overall, nothing to it. I'd go back. ;) 

 

Tissues at the ready AKA The Last Camp Post

I confess, this is the post I've procrastinated on. Not because I didn't want to write it, per say, but because I wanted to do justice to a place that means so incredibly much to me for almost 30 years and for so many other amazing friends I'd probably not have been privileged to have in my tribe otherwise. I thought, maybe, if a little time passed that I'd be able to do it without tears. That doesn't appear to be the case, so here goes. 

Camp has been broken into three separate parcels and sold. The last Saturday in August was the final day for anyone to come and visit it as camp and to select what they wanted from whatever was left behind. A lot of items had already been given to other camps or programs, and that's good, because useful things should be used and not just left behind. It was still a challenge to be there knowing it would be for the last time. It's been such a touchstone in my life, a great place to reconnect with people I love, and a phenomenal place to connect with our creator. I still can't wrap my head and heart around not being back there, ever.

I can't understate how much I value the friendships I've made there throughout the years. Many of the people in our wedding, including the pastor, are folks we met at camp. The bonds that you form while working with others who are also sunburned, mosquito bitten, tired, hungry, cold, and wet are real. I've never been in the service, but I can easily see how those other people can become like brothers simply because of what I've lived at camp. Many hands does make light work. Laughter makes memories. When people love each other and work together to show other people that love, it shows. I definitely would not be who I am today without the time I've spent at camp, as a camper and a staff member and a volunteer.

One more thing: out of respect to so many of those who didn't want to mar their wonderful camp memories with seeing its decline on this final day, I've tried to carefully choose photos that show beauty and God's faithfulness throughout. I did indeed take others, but these are the ones worth sharing. I regret very much not taking more pictures of the people.

Westminster Highlands was a Christian camp in the hills of western Pennsylvania. I'd been there a few times for retreats with my high school youth group as our church was part of one of the Presbyteries which supported the camp. It's a few minutes off of I-80 near Emlenton, which means it's not far at all from the Allegheny River, below. The Little Scrubgrass Creek runs through camp and joins the Allegheny. Some of our more adventurous weeks were built around time on the river, like Rocks, Rivers, and Ropes, where campers would canoe, rock climb, and participate on the ropes courses and their myriad of trust building games and activities. One of my favorite parts about camp was being in one of the Adirondack cabins, listening to thunderstorms roll down the river valley, crashing and flashing and dumping water all through the woods and making mud.

This is the sign welcoming you to camp. I'd love to know how many campers bounced with excitement in their seats as their vehicle turned off the paved road and proceeded under the sign. That would be a fabulous fun fact!

This is the pond where campers were taught to swamp and re-right their canoes before river trips, where cheerful yellow funbugs were ridden, and where we washed off the very worst of the mud from mud hikes before hitting the showers. I never failed to choose a funbug that would behave perfectly on my way away from shore but then would become completely demented and paddle in circles once I was in the middle of the pond. Some of you are smiling and musing, "user error." I maintain possession. 

Off to the left of the photo, out of sight here, was a fire pit with log benches where many a Vespers service was held, singing along to guitars, sharing life experiences, learning that the stories in the Bible involved real people just like us and that as God used them, He can use us. Many s'mores were also roasted and consumed...

Okay, this one specifically is for Dave Kinman. He once informed us something along the lines of he'd never ask us as our boss to do something that wasn't in the Bible. We received instructions at one point to "pull weeds in front of the store. ~Hezekiah 22:12" 

Some of you are thinking, "hmm. There is a Hezekiah in the Bible. He was a king, but I don't recall him having his own book." You'd be right. Except that nugget formed a lot of "instructions" given over the years in my life, in my husband's life, now in our kids' lives. Hezekiah has become our "you should do it because I said so" without saying it that way. Is there something that needs done and someone who needs to do it? Give them a verse from Hezekiah. It's much more fun than saying, "because I said so," which tends to sound like your mother and her mother before her and her mother before her, should any of us been sassy enough to talk back and question an instruction in the first place. Throw some "thou shalts" in there too to make it more fun. I believe that was the original: thou shalt pull weeds in front of the store.

Well, nobody has weeded for awhile. But it's a good lesson in first impressions. Registration happened in a myriad of different locations and processes over the years, and the store was often, if not always, open during registration. A tidy storefront reassured parents that, since we took care of our grounds, we could be trusted to look after their children for a week. Metal trash cans with tight-fitting lids kept out critters and limited their ability to strew wrappers and litter everywhere. Plus, if you had a buddy during weed pulling, you ended up working faster and learning more about each other, leading to closer friendships. Large group games such as camper bowling (yes, we used to bowl for campers with an Earth ball back in the day), Sharks and Minnows, Heaven and Tragedy and many others were played in front of the store, and it served as a stage during skit night. It also sold snacks, drinks, camp merchandise, and the all important ice cream treats from Steese's: mint bars and orange buddies come to mind, along with their cult followings.

One of my very favorite parts of camp are the trees. I'll try to suppress my inner Lorax and not go on and on, but the trees. Every season is beautiful at camp. Winter retreats with freezy trees and tons of snow everywhere, high summer with the cicadas singing and everything growing in countless different shades of green, the beauty of moss on rocks deposited by glaciers contrasting with colorful fall leaves, the vibrance of shining leaves after a soaking rain.

Many of you will instantly recognize this trailhead despite it being a bit overgrown. If you cross that bridge and follow the red trail, you come to one of many huge rock formations around camp, which is called Chapel Rock. Wooden benches forming an amphitheater of sorts face an enormous rock face, and a beautiful wooden cross had been erected there as well. Here again Vespers services were held, even in the dark of night during our Owl Patrol weeks where the campers get to experience camp activities at night like night hikes, night swims, cooking over a fire in the dark, star gazing, flashlight tag, and so forth. It's the perfect place to reflect on the unchanging nature of God, how he is our Rock, and how he is the same yesterday, today, and forever. 

Sadly, that parcel of camp had already been sold and we were asked to not hike out to say goodbye, hence the lack of pictures. It was hard to be somewhere I knew so well and not be allowed to tramp every trail to all of my favorite spots. I can't be the only one feeling depressed about that aspect, but I can envision Chapel Rock, with its benches perhaps needing some love, the trees crowding in a bit, but the Rock being solid and cool to the touch and unmoving. It's a good anchor. *Insert cloudburst of tears here*

This man, this blessing, (scroll down for picture then come back up, I'll wait) to me is proof that there is no circumstance that God can't and won't use for the good despite the enemy's best efforts to attack us. I'll try to condense, but I'll have to back up.

I've had a BFF since we were both six. Her name is Lisa and she's one of the most wonderful creations God ever made. Of course I'm biased! Anyway, I dragged her along to the sister camp of Westminster Highlands, Camp Lambec, when we were not quite junior high students. It's where I'd fallen in love with camp initially, thanks to my friend Anne who took me when we were old enough in third grade. I never looked back. The dream for Lisa and I was to keep growing up, going to camp every year, and then work there together.

Life being what it is made things a little tougher. We were inseparable, until we weren't. We had a huge fight our senior year. We weren't speaking at prom. We weren't speaking at graduation. Interviews for working at camp were scheduled and I cried in front of my future boss, knowing that if we both worked at Lambec that there'd be no body of Christ while we were harboring so much resentment.

She asked me if I wanted to work at Westminster Highlands. I'd only been there for retreats at that point, and one wild week in the summer of 1993 as a counselor in training for Owl Patrol. During that week, I met Kelly, who would end up being my brother in law. I'd had a good time, a great time, actually, but the dream had been to work at Lambec. It was a tough decision made a little less tough by my options: stay at home and work at Wendy's (which is not bad, I loved that as well, but it certainly wasn't the dream, you see) or go to the Highlands. 

I picked the Highlands. I have never regretted it. 

I've posted previously about how Kelly was on staff again that summer, waaaay back in 1994, haha, and how one of our staff guys was getting married that summer.  We would need to find another guy to take his spot after he went off to live with his new bride. Kelly called back home, week after week, cajoling his next younger brother, Scott, to come work at camp. "I'm not wasting my summer at camp," was the refrain he heard for multiple weeks, and is a line often tossed about to tease him with now. 

Eventually, God used Kelly to break Scott down to where he resigned, "fine, I'll come for one week. But that's it!"

He stayed the rest of the summer. 

Then he returned in 95, 96, and 97. 

We started officially dating in 1997, got engaged that October, and got married first thing in 1999. 

During those years, God softened other hearts and used both camps to play a part, which I chuckle about now. Of course he used camp- nothing better to get our attention. A new week was created called Double Exposure. It was to show off, if you will, the best aspects of both camps. Campers would start at one on Sunday, take a bus ride to the other Wednesday where they'd finish the week and get picked up along with all their stuff on Saturday. The Highlands was very rustic and woodsy. Lambec is right on Lake Erie with a beach, a pond, beautiful indoor and outdoor Chapels, and (if I were writing a tourism brochure) quaint cabins. (They're grey now, and have been for years, a fact I'm still salty about as they were dark green where I started going in third grade and I maintain that there are days when the Lake is gray and the sky is gray and if the cabins are gray you're not going to be able to find them, haha. Oh well. I am not in charge of the world.)

Lisa did work at Lambec, also from 94-97. I went with the Double Exposure campers and got to have some tentative conversations with her at Lambec that week. We wrote letters to each other from our separate colleges. 

Eventually our relationship was restored to where Lisa was in our wedding and is a wonderful, vital part of my life. I would not be the person I am without her influence on my life. She is one of the best listeners I know, something I need to work on.

So, as Inigo Montoya says, "let me sum up." Had Lisa and I not fought and had ended up both working the dream at Lambec, it's safe to say I would not have met Scott at least until 95 when the staffs from both camps got together for some training. That was only a few days, so likely meeting would have been all that happened.  God used what until that point had been the most heart wrenching experience of my life to introduce me to the man who would stand by my side through many moves through four states, three kids, a breast cancer diagnosis and treatment, and all the details of our "real life" these past 21 years. 

And our staff guy who got married, "Mot" because there were three Toms on staff that summer, raised a family with his beautiful bride who became a resource for me during my breast cancer journey before she succumbed to another round herself. God, like Gibbs on NCIS ("y'don't waste good"), doesn't waste anything!

I love you, babe. I'm so thankful for you. And I'm glad we could come to "the end of all things (camp)" together.

Robin A, one of the Adirondacks in the Knox side of camp, was the perfect spot for the youngest campers as it was closest to the bathhouse and the dining hall. Each Adirondack was one of a pair, A and B, haha, and they were named for birds: Robin, Lark, Wren, Blue Jay, Eagle, Cardinal. Some weeks of camp packed them all out. That's a lot of kids! 

When I started there, that front wall with the screen and the door wasn't there; we had heavy, green, tarp-like curtains that we dragged across at night. It also meant that the campers really needed to heed the rules about no food in the cabin, because there wasn't much between their snacks and a determined raccoon. 

I've mentioned the glacier rocks that are prevalent throughout camp. This one is for Leslie, Wren Rock. I always think of her when I think about Wren Rock, though I don't have a concrete reason why. There must have been something she said about it, because I hear it in her voice. Either way, I wish I'd spent more time on it, enjoying the sunlight on the moss and the sun streaming through the trees around it. Such a peaceful spot.

Again with the trees and the leaves on the path. Sorry. I'm a Wood Elf at heart.

See the little yellow tree peeking from down the way?

Having spent an awful lot of time telling campers to stay on the path, I felt a little guilty bajaing around, but I kept hearing a line from "Into the Woods" in my head. A nervous Red Riding Hood frets, "Mother told me to never stray from the path," to which the baker flatly states, "the path has strayed from you."

I was glad that I'd dodged around these flowers instead of brushing against them because of the pollen I figured was in them. I was immensely glad I'd given them a wider berth when I looked closer and saw the ginormous spider who was chilling underneath them! That would have taught me to stray from the path! I can just hear my Gramps laughing at me.

We stopped along the road to the archery hill and I saw a small rustle by my booted feet. I figured spider or small scurrying thing, but was delighted to find a salamander, just out and about doing his thing!

The ferns. Again, sorry, Wood Elf moment. The woods by where we live now don't have ferns, and thus the woods smell completely different than the woods at camp. I miss the ferns so much Scott bought me two for the front porch this year. I love the ferns at camp. Yes, I know they hog the sunlight and won't let other things grow, but man, they are so pretty and woodsy and lush and green. Mmmm. Love them. 

Okay, anybody know where this is? *humming theme song to "Jeopardy"* Time's up. I am looking downhill from the left of the Calvin bathhouse, which means that somewhere down there, where the path has unquestionably strayed from us, is Spruce. Spruce was one of the hogans on the Calvin side that served as cabins in my early years at camp. Picture a green tent with metal ribs like a carport and stick a wooden pallet-ish base underneath it. Shove some canvas bunk beds in there and now you're all set. You will spend roughly an eighth of your time in a hogan attempting to fish dropped objects back out of the slats in the floor. Another eighth of your time will be opening and shutting the end flaps, praying for a breeze to rush through so you don't bake to death during FOB (Feet on bunk, flat on back, nap time, you get the idea). The hogans were named after trees: Laurel, Spruce, Oak, Elm, Hemlock. There may still be ribs and/or pallets around for them, but I didn't trip over any on this visit. At any rate, Spruce was the most remote, and I never got to stay there myself, though I have great memories of one of the staff guys bellowing, "SPRUUUUUUUUUUCE" as they scampered down the path to get there.

"All God's children got a place in the choir. Some sing low, some sing higher, some sing out loud on a telephone wire. Some just clap their hands, or paws, or anything they've got, now!" 

I have no idea what this heart's story is. Did it drop off of a long ago craft? Did it jump out of someone's Bible? Was it intended to show appreciation to the kitchen staff? I found it outside the dining hall and it made me think of Dumbledore telling Harry how help will always come to those who ask for it. In this case, even though so many of us have cracks in our heart because we can never go back to ramble the trails we love so much, I know that He's got us and he will provide different places for us to teach others about how much he loves us. If he's not doing it through the Highlands anymore, He's just doing it somewhere else. 

 

The other side of the Westminster Highlands sign is no less important. It reads, "to know Christ and to make Him known." That was our purpose in working there just as it's our purpose in life. If we truly know him in our hearts, there's no way his love won't spill out of us and get all over others. Let's get messy!

Yes, this one shows a little of the decay the buildings are experiencing in the Pennsylvania woods. I liked how right next to the decline we have growth. Beauty with the mess. Just like real life.

Part of all of ours hearts will always be here, whether we can be here physically or not. It makes me so sad that our kids can't experience God here the way that we did, but I know that it doesn't mean they won't at all; it will look different for them and that's okay. I'm thankful that I took a chance on something I was unsure about as the friendships and experiences I've had here will last my whole life and I am richer for spending my time in the woods with the bugs and the mud and other people's children. People who camp get it, even if this wasn't their camp. We are a special tribe unto ourselves and I'm thankful for those who have enriched my tribe over the years. Even those who are gone, Skink and Dawn, are not forgotten and played parts in who I am today. 

So do your homework, find a reputable camp with its own amazing staff, and let your children experience what they can't get in the same way at home. Don't let them miss out on what can be such a pivotal time in their lives. I can't even tell you how many life skills I learned from camp that serve me well even today. 

My last job at camp was kitchen staff, and I loved picking verses to write on the chalkboard on the back porch of the dining hall. I changed it one last time before we left. 

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.