"Que Viva la vida, Que siga la fiesta, las manos en la cintura, Que asi es que va esta"
~Wisin
Chile. It was a crazy turn of events that brought us to Santiago 17 years ago. Marek got transferred by his company because he felt that there was so much business that he could single-handedly set up distribution for his company in South America. He was 28 years old. We were married six months and he came to me with a bouquet of pink roses and asked me if he could grab this opportunity. I had just gotten accepted to nursing school, but of course, I knew what a great opportunity it was. He was fluent in Spanish, handsome, likeable, and already knew the lay of the land after spending a year rafting for Curry Expeditions. I sent him by himself, and our first year of marriage was spent online with a dial-up connection. (yawn). Six months later, I applied for a deferral and joined him. In one year, he grew the business by 400 million dollars.
One of his colleagues was Pablo Rodriguez. Pablo was a conservative businessman, grown in the years of dictatorial Pinochet and the husband of a stout Pinochetista. When Marek arrived in Santiago, he knocked on Pablo's business door and said, "I'm gonna help you grow your business." Strong words from a guy with hair down to his waist. For me, Chile was an opportunity to explore. However, when I got off the plane, I didn't speak a word of Spanish. Chileans don't speak English. Most of the world uses English as a fallback but Chile does not. Even Argentina has more people who speak English. Chilean spanish is difficult. Chileans speak super fast, they mumble, making it hard to hear all of the syllables and sounds and they use a lot of slang. I was afraid to leave our apartment for the first month. I knew I could manage but my biggest fear was what if I got on the wrong bus? I can't ask for help because I won't understand the answer. I can't tell which bus goes where because the line is different every time and to top it off, I'm in a city of six million people. Country girls get eaten alive in big cities and I was a stupid gringa who did not need to be lost in the wrong neighborhood. My first week was spent walking, a lot. I went back and forth to the grocery store learning the names of items by looking at them (Produce, breads, cookies). However, I was not picking up the language fast enough. I signed up for classes and spent two, two-week modules trying to learn spanish. The trouble with that was that they taught the Spanish that was always grammatically correct. No slang and with an expectation that you are speaking with people of higher education, which does me no good with a Chilean taxi driver. Fortunately, for me, Santiago, Chile has an excellent subway system called the "Metro." My knowledge of geographical Santiago is limited to the lines and metro stops of this subway or at least were, until I learned the language. Despite 4 weeks of role-playing, studying, learning verbs and tenses and vocabulary, I felt like I hadn't learned a thing. Every time I left my school and interacted with my world, I was as lost as ever. This was not necessarily a bad thing because people in Chile are super nice. I was often befriended in the darnedest places where someone stepped in and assisted me with whatever my struggle of the day was. I got lucky because no one ever took advantage of me to my knowledge. Two Chilean guys took me to lunch one day. They seemed nice. It could have gone south very easily but they were genuinely kind and wanted to show me their country. Open to new experiences, I let them and had an amazing day full of fresh, Chilean sea bass, organically grown salad followed by ice cream and a tour of all the historic sites downtown. Again, I got lucky with that one.
I told our friend Pablo this story and he thought I was crazy. He also thought that throwing a backpack on my back and jumping on a bus to Southern Chile, Buenos Aires, and Northern Argentina was also a little nutty. He called me "Gringa loca." When Marek was out of town, he would call and check on me. He knew I had a hard time with the language. Keep in mind that he was just a business associate, but a kind and considerate person that taught me much about how to treat people outside your culture. He invited us to his home where we met his incredible wife and their five children. I struggled with the language and I was so embarrassed. Marek often spoke for me or helped me flounder through my five or six words. The kids were so respectful and kind and listened to all ten words of my vocabulary without judgment. The oldest of the five was 8 years old.
By the way, the first time I traveled to Argentina after my Spanish classes, the bus dropped me off in downtown Mendoza. Mendoza is known for its wines and at the time, was probably the most populated city on the western side of Argentina. I'd spent 4 weeks trying to learn Spanish in Chile and felt like we wasted the money because I still couldn't understand very much. In Mendoza, I walked into an ice cream shop and a very handsome Argentinian guy asked me something in Spanish that was so clear and so easy to understand, I almost fell over. I understood EVERYTHING. I started talking to everyone and thus began my adventures throughout South America. When I returned to the bus station, Pablo was there of his own volition, picking me up and bringing me home. He was my Chilean guardian angel. Marek and I spent 2 years in Chile. I traveled all through the country and through Argentina, sometimes by myself and sometimes with Marek. We had some incredible adventures.
In 2005, Pablo suffered a brain aneurysm and died leaving behind five young children and a wife to raise them. We stayed in touch best we could but our kids were 2 and 8 months, and we were neck deep in our own issues of raising kids. In Chile, a nanny or housekeeper runs about $600 per month so it's very common to have one. Pablo's family had two, so there was a little more help in that household than in mine. Meanwhile, Mrs. Rodriguez continued to run her husband's business best to her knowledge. I sent her a Christmas card every year. She sent our girls a small gift from Chile or a note filling us in on her life. We sort of lost touch, but we always tracked her down to get our Christmas card to her. In 2013, her second youngest son, Diego, and two of his friends rode motorcycles from South America all the way to the United States. They stayed at our house for a few days and met the girls. We put them up, we fed them and had an amazing time where we learned about details of their lives that we had missed. We reconnected and our friendship was supported by the presence of facebook and digital photography.
Diego was married this past weekend to his lifelong sweetheart, Trinidad. They loved each other since they were eight years old. We received our invite and both Marek and I lit up like kids at Christmas. Of course, we sent an obligatory note politely asking if we were REALLY invited or if we should just send a gift because if we were REALLY invited, we were coming to Chile. The family was thrilled and of course reassured us that we were "bien invitado" which translates to "very invited."
It was an amazing weekend.
We met what seemed to be the entire family. Pablo's widow, Coco, remarried and they added four children to Coco's five for a total of nine. Move over Brady Bunch. Reality TV would have loved this in the U.S.. Our weekend started with dinner at a beautiful restaurant with smoked salmone, chilean seabass, steak, crepes with dulce de leche, wine, coffee.... We tried to grab the bill but one of the kids beat us to it. He actually left the table and paid before we had a chance! It was our intention to take all of them to dinner. Marek and I were sheepishly embarrassed to have botched this opportunity.
But wait, it gets better.
The following evening, they hosted us for dinner, AT THEIR HOUSE. Now, call me crazy (and Pablo did, regularly), but who invites friends over, two days before a huge family wedding? I felt so honored because I thought the night before the wedding, they would have a rehearsal dinner with the bride's family etc. Nope. Not a tradition in Chile. Instead, you invite Gringos. All but two kids were there only because the oldest was married, moved out and expecting his first baby and another had a previous engagement. The evening was frought with Chilean Spanish, lots of questions coming at me rapid-fire and an embarrassment when I dropped a few modernisms that apparently, you don't use in formal company. "Huevon" doesn't sound as appropriate coming from a 40-something Gringa as it does a 20-something chileno. However, the good nature of our host and hostess were kind enough to laugh along, and we all giggled about cuss words in both languages. Our personalities bubbled up in this conversation and the compatibility of our friendship became obviously comfortable.
The Ceremony was held in an unbelievably gorgeous and ornate Catholic Church with stained glass windows depicting scenes from the bible and ornate gold details. Despite a large space, it was standing room only when the service began. The ceremony was all in Spanish and included taking communion. There was a lot of standing, kneeling, praying, reciting, and singing, followed by more standing and a lot of Hail Mary's. It's one thing to follow along in English. It's quite another trying to recite the Lord's prayer in another language. I gave up and decided my temporary vow of silence would suffice as a tribute. This way, I couldn't screw it up.
The reception was held at a small place out in the country 45 minutes from the city. Decorated with sweet peas, hydrangeas, Gerber daisies, tulips and alstromeria, the decor was completely perfect with white tables, white chairs and candleabras hanging from the ceiling. Warm, traditional christmas lights rounded out the look along with not one, not two but THREE disco balls over the dance floor. There were 500 guests. I've never seen a wedding so big. Open bar, a full meal, a dessert table a mile long, a candy "bar" where you could get sweets throughout the night and a hamburger station. The couple went to every table and addressed their guests. There was no cake ceremony but there was a full dance floor that didn't shut down until 5am. Yes, 5am. The dancing began around 10 and the dance floor was never empty and pretty much packed the entire time. The DJ NEVER took a break. Note to self. At 4am, another meal of hot dogs and sandwiches was served. The music played on and Spanish or English, it was a celebration of epic proportions.
We carried the American torch. We danced for six hours. We took selfies with everyone in the wedding party and most of the guests. While Chilean parents and grandparents sat around tables and watched and conversed about the state of their family and Chile's economy, everyone else, danced and sang and put the newlyweds on their shoulders and danced some more. Diego's soccer team donned their jerseys and scrummed with the bride in the center and chanted chilean futbol songs. It was an unbelievable cultural experience that Marek and I immersed ourselves into and we were embraced like family.
We arrived at our hotel at 5:30am, the bottoms of my feet raw from dancing barefoot in spilled beer, Piscolas and confetti and muscles aching from six hours of moving parts I hadn't moved that abruptly in a while.
We danced with all of Pablo's children and the children of Coco's new husband who were all beautiful people inside and out. We spent time with the family prior to the wedding when they hosted us for dinner and one of Pablo's daughters took us hiking up Cerro Manquehue. The family insisted on driving us everywhere and hosting us like royalty in the midst of the biggest wedding I've ever seen. Amazing people who never stop being amazing despite significant stress.
Chile is an incredible country. Not much unlike our country, it struggles with all the same social issues. We all recognize and agree that the world is changing and how those changes affect us is yet to be told. With all of Diego's siblings between the ages of 27 and 16, they are all taking off in their own directions and setting forth a new world culture. I am hopeful that our Chilean family will change the world for the better just in time for MY kids to see what an amazing world they have made, and inspire them to do the same.
I am so happy. I am happy to know that Pablo's wife found love, companionship, and family years after his death. I am happy that their children have become amazing, thoughtful human beings who live with heart and energy and kindness and treat everyone like friends regardless of culture or age. My feelings about the general goodness of human beings is reinforced by this experience. As with all those I love and cherish, I have adopted this family as my own. I look forward to every opportunity to participate in the lives of these people, and hope that we never lose this connection.
Friday, November 6, 2015
Monday, November 2, 2015
Livin on a Prayer
"We gotta hold on, to what we've got. It doesn't make a difference if we make it or not. We've got each other, and that's a lot for love. We'll give it a shot. Ooooh, we're half way there. Ooooh-oh livin on a prayer. Take my hand, we'll make it I swear. Ooooh-oh livin on a prayer." ~Bon Jovi
Fifty. What's the big deal? 50 trips around the sun, 50 jellybeans in a jar, 50 stitches after breaking a leg. 50's nifty and I have to say, I'm getting so tired of everyone complaining about how 50 is bearing down on them or how they don't do certain things anymore now that they're "50." Really? It's a number. Traditionally, age 50 signified a slowing down, an obvious milestone that dictated that you were aging and unable to do anything. The operative word in this paragraph is "traditionally." Traditionally, the expected lifespan was 73. Now it's somewhere in the 80's and projected to increase because we realize we can't just sit in a chair and chain smoke away a gazillion NFL Sundays. The jig is up. Research shows that lifestyle changes such as exercise, healthy eating and avoiding addictions of any kind such as smoking, heroine, and that nasty McDonald's habit, can actually make you feel better about the life you are actually living. A joyful life equates to seeking positive experiences that make us happy, and happiness is what keeps us youthful. 50 means were only halfway there.
I've been in the healthcare and fitness industry one way or another for my entire life. As a nurse, I can tell from looking at you that you're a smoker, a diabetic, a heart patient, a depressive, or a prisoner of mediocrity. It's in your skin, your shape, your hair, your eyes, your smile (or lack thereof). It's in your communication pattern, your life choices and your social isolation v. active community involvement. What is interesting is there are so many resources out there telling us how to live longer, live better, and be happy, but no one really identifies happiness as the ultimate goal. That's really up to us. I suppose our parents have an influence but at some point, we all have to suck it up and be grown-ups and decide that we want to be happy and not miserable. Instead, we've been taught to be rich, be thin, be stunningly gorgeous, to drive a car of status, to live in a big, ostentatious house. We are taught to make our mark on the world, be famous, be amazing, learn to waterski, snow ski, hang glide, fly an airplane, because if we learn and do these things, we will feel good about ourselves. Okay, I buy that somewhat but, is being happy and feeling good about ourselves the same thing? Not in my book. I think jumping out of a perfectly good airplane and relying on a paper thin piece of material to save my life is grossly idiotic and irresponsible. Who ever thought this was a good idea? "But it's such a thrill!" Well yeah, if you survive. It's one thing if that's what you pursue in life and it drives you but so many are rampantly jumping out of airplanes, looking for that thing that makes them happy. It makes them happy for the amount of time it takes to reach terminal velocity and drift back to Earth. Then it's back to their miserable job, their abusive spouse, and their crappy life.
Don't get me wrong. New and exciting experiences are the vehicle to get us to the happy place. I am guilty of this on a daily basis. I'm a kayaker, a climber, a skier, a martial artist, and a mt. biker. All of these things sort of feed my soul so I can get to my happy place but happiness is in the way we live. It's in the choices we make everyday. I've noticed that many of my friends are re-evaluating this happiness, and I'm witnessing interesting behavior everywhere. Some are going off to "find themselves." Some are looking into new and exciting ways to live their life. Some are getting divorced, finding that "special someone" after a lifetime of loneliness, and others are simply choosing to be alone. There are also friends who are engaging in their children's lives, celebrating grandchildren and making positive changes.
Despite all of this, I still see a melancholiness about crossing the fifty line, and I find it unnecessary. Research has shown us that the way we live our lives dictates what fifty will look and feel like. How you live today, affects how you will feel 10 years from now. I used to think being an athlete was a healthy practice. Come to find out, I have worn out my body, my bones, my joints, and my cells over time and running my body into the ground is actually not a healthy practice. However, giving up and halting the practice of movement completely accelerates the damage as well. I am constantly grappling with how much exercise is enough and how much is too much. The good news is we know no amount of smoking, drinking alcohol, doing drugs or eating sugar and processed foods is ever good for you. That said, all of us should be disengaging from these behaviors and consequently, end up healthier. "50 is the new 40!" and other colloquialisms are actual possibilities. It's all about lifestyle and behavior choices.
I will be 49 in 8 weeks. I can't wait to be 50. I am so excited to cross that finish line because it means I have endured youth. I have survived my mistakes of my past, I have gutted through illness and I've gained a whole lot of wisdom. My body will deteriorate and my mind will start to let things slip. This is already in motion. However, I'm still bubbling up to the top, sharing my life with my kids and those I love at every level. I'm not afraid of anything (largely because I have wasted my adrenals completely) and I don't care what small-minded people think of me. I stand on my principles. I hold those close to me, close to me and to a higher standard which they meet. My bucket list is re-filled to meet the desires of a 50 year-old woman and not that of a child. I'm ready for 50 and everything after because I am going to do it better than anyone else.
Fifty. What's the big deal? 50 trips around the sun, 50 jellybeans in a jar, 50 stitches after breaking a leg. 50's nifty and I have to say, I'm getting so tired of everyone complaining about how 50 is bearing down on them or how they don't do certain things anymore now that they're "50." Really? It's a number. Traditionally, age 50 signified a slowing down, an obvious milestone that dictated that you were aging and unable to do anything. The operative word in this paragraph is "traditionally." Traditionally, the expected lifespan was 73. Now it's somewhere in the 80's and projected to increase because we realize we can't just sit in a chair and chain smoke away a gazillion NFL Sundays. The jig is up. Research shows that lifestyle changes such as exercise, healthy eating and avoiding addictions of any kind such as smoking, heroine, and that nasty McDonald's habit, can actually make you feel better about the life you are actually living. A joyful life equates to seeking positive experiences that make us happy, and happiness is what keeps us youthful. 50 means were only halfway there.
I've been in the healthcare and fitness industry one way or another for my entire life. As a nurse, I can tell from looking at you that you're a smoker, a diabetic, a heart patient, a depressive, or a prisoner of mediocrity. It's in your skin, your shape, your hair, your eyes, your smile (or lack thereof). It's in your communication pattern, your life choices and your social isolation v. active community involvement. What is interesting is there are so many resources out there telling us how to live longer, live better, and be happy, but no one really identifies happiness as the ultimate goal. That's really up to us. I suppose our parents have an influence but at some point, we all have to suck it up and be grown-ups and decide that we want to be happy and not miserable. Instead, we've been taught to be rich, be thin, be stunningly gorgeous, to drive a car of status, to live in a big, ostentatious house. We are taught to make our mark on the world, be famous, be amazing, learn to waterski, snow ski, hang glide, fly an airplane, because if we learn and do these things, we will feel good about ourselves. Okay, I buy that somewhat but, is being happy and feeling good about ourselves the same thing? Not in my book. I think jumping out of a perfectly good airplane and relying on a paper thin piece of material to save my life is grossly idiotic and irresponsible. Who ever thought this was a good idea? "But it's such a thrill!" Well yeah, if you survive. It's one thing if that's what you pursue in life and it drives you but so many are rampantly jumping out of airplanes, looking for that thing that makes them happy. It makes them happy for the amount of time it takes to reach terminal velocity and drift back to Earth. Then it's back to their miserable job, their abusive spouse, and their crappy life.
Don't get me wrong. New and exciting experiences are the vehicle to get us to the happy place. I am guilty of this on a daily basis. I'm a kayaker, a climber, a skier, a martial artist, and a mt. biker. All of these things sort of feed my soul so I can get to my happy place but happiness is in the way we live. It's in the choices we make everyday. I've noticed that many of my friends are re-evaluating this happiness, and I'm witnessing interesting behavior everywhere. Some are going off to "find themselves." Some are looking into new and exciting ways to live their life. Some are getting divorced, finding that "special someone" after a lifetime of loneliness, and others are simply choosing to be alone. There are also friends who are engaging in their children's lives, celebrating grandchildren and making positive changes.
Despite all of this, I still see a melancholiness about crossing the fifty line, and I find it unnecessary. Research has shown us that the way we live our lives dictates what fifty will look and feel like. How you live today, affects how you will feel 10 years from now. I used to think being an athlete was a healthy practice. Come to find out, I have worn out my body, my bones, my joints, and my cells over time and running my body into the ground is actually not a healthy practice. However, giving up and halting the practice of movement completely accelerates the damage as well. I am constantly grappling with how much exercise is enough and how much is too much. The good news is we know no amount of smoking, drinking alcohol, doing drugs or eating sugar and processed foods is ever good for you. That said, all of us should be disengaging from these behaviors and consequently, end up healthier. "50 is the new 40!" and other colloquialisms are actual possibilities. It's all about lifestyle and behavior choices.
I will be 49 in 8 weeks. I can't wait to be 50. I am so excited to cross that finish line because it means I have endured youth. I have survived my mistakes of my past, I have gutted through illness and I've gained a whole lot of wisdom. My body will deteriorate and my mind will start to let things slip. This is already in motion. However, I'm still bubbling up to the top, sharing my life with my kids and those I love at every level. I'm not afraid of anything (largely because I have wasted my adrenals completely) and I don't care what small-minded people think of me. I stand on my principles. I hold those close to me, close to me and to a higher standard which they meet. My bucket list is re-filled to meet the desires of a 50 year-old woman and not that of a child. I'm ready for 50 and everything after because I am going to do it better than anyone else.
Saturday, October 17, 2015
Colder Weather
"He said I wanna see you again, but I'm stuck in colder weather. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Can I call you then? She said, You're a ramblin man. You ain't ever gonna change. You got a gypsy soul to blame and you were born for leavin'." ~Zac Brown Band
12 years of working in the ER can make you jaded. You see the continuum of humanity from best to worst, young to old, birth to death. I knew this going in. I made a secret promise to myself that I would not allow myself to be jaded. My documentation would remain pristine. I would base all of my care on evidence-based research, and I would find a way to care for every soul that walked in the door regardless of their shortcomings. However, despite a nasty case of idealism, 12 years is a long time, and you can't imagine the atrocities that humans endure outside of everyone else's perfect microcosm. The average burnout rate for the emergency room nurse is anywhere from 5-7 years at which point, they retire to the PACU, post-anesthesia care unit. I made it to 12 years and realized that it was just a matter of time.
The long road to pessimism begins with a lot of people lying to you for drugs. It's too many mothers neglecting their children for boyfriends who don't care. It's too many elderly found on their living room floors after three days, dehydrated, malnourished and smelling of urine because they couldn't get up and no one visited them. Then there are the drunks who insist on peeing on the floor, right in front of you. It's a hundred stories of the worst possible example of humanity and you simply cannot believe that not only is the person in front of you the worst human story you've ever heard, there's one worse waiting in the emergency room waiting room. After awhile, you wake up and realize that you are, in fact, jaded.
Soon gallows humor is the only way to get through a shift. You begin to judge and point your finger and guilt everyone around you into making better choices. And they buy it because their lives are so immeasurably awful.
Quitting is not an option because by quitting, you essentially quit humanity. You quit the people. People that need you so much, even THEY don't know how much. Obviously, when you are not there, the ER continues on. You're not there, but SOMEBODY is, and your turn is coming back around soon enough. You go home, hug your kids, kiss your husband, and revel in the beauty that surrounds you, at least that's what you should do. Unfortunately, these stories eat away at you and it's hard to be happy knowing there's an element out there struggling for survival.
I used to fight my own internal battle. Who am I to change someone's stripes? Who am I to pass judgment on another because essentially, that is what I am doing by disapproving of their life choices and asking them to make different ones. Would my suggestions lead them to a better path? Possibly. Or, I'm just some spoiled, white bitch in my ivory tower and I really should just shut the fuck up. (Yes, I've been told that more times than I can count). That doesn't trigger my touchy-feely sense. You can take the high road all you want but inside, you stop giving a shit. You stop wanting to help. Soon you join the ranks of the miserable, and stop holding people to a higher standard because you're too bitter to see them achieve it.
My story is unique in that I did not retire peacefully to the PACU. Instead, I got Cancer. That fixed my attitude right quick. I repented my jadedness. I was given help and kindness while I fought my battle and not once was I judged for a poor choice. Okay, I didn't make that many poor choices, but sometimes a chocolate eclair just begged me to eat it because I might not be around much longer to enjoy that particularly evil sidestep. Yeah, I'm a rebel.
I swore that I would not return to being jaded. I realized that my days working in the ER are over because as an older person, my patience has worn thin. The potential for jaded is much higher, and I don't want my cancer fight to be for nothing, because if anything good came out of getting cancer, it was my appreciation for human life. All human life, including anyone and everyone who was willing to accept my love. My help. My kindness. My "human-ness."
I didn't plan to have that thrown back in my face. Again.
I've experienced some major disappointments this summer. I swear my heart was in the right place. I was reaching out. Reconnecting. Making amends for being "a fucking bitch" (because I sort of was, although I claim teenage ignorance and stupidity to SOME extent. I have since repented.). I've dedicated myself to my husband and my children serving our family the best way I know how, which is marginal at best. I nurtured my friendships and built many new ones. I opened myself to different ways of living, other people's politics and religion. I devoted myself to a the "sport" of mixed martial arts and gave my trust and respect to ANYONE with the nerve to step on the mat with me, and I brought as much positive energy as I could muster.
Recent events have disappointed me beyond belief. There's a lesson in the events of my summer and I'm pretty sure it's a lesson, I learned long ago but for some reason, the universe feels compelled to keep teaching it. Maybe it's not my lesson, but I keep getting sucked into the same lesson, and the pain of it is felt nonetheless.
Everyone has a line. They draw a line in the sand that implies, "cross this, and all bets are off. By crossing this line, you have compromised everything you stand for." What do I stand for? I stand for women and kids, nomadic river guides, families, Wild and Scenic Rivers, and people making the best choices they can so as not to find themselves in an ER begging for opiates and telling their nurse how nothing is their fault. It's not easy. Sometimes the choices we are given seem impossible. Often, the right choice is the most painful one. I had the best of intentions to share my heart, open it up and invite everyone in. For the most part, I was successful. I made some great friendships that deepen and grow everyday. I reconnected with some old friends from long ago. They have since brought new members into the fold. Husbands, wives, children and more friends. One of my friend's daughters danced "for Breast Cancer" in my name. I met her at my 30th High School reunion. These new connections have been meaningful and amazing to the point where I come to expect it. Allowing yourself to trust and give almost blindly is a choice. Being afraid to be hurt is a lot like being afraid cancer will come back. You just can't focus on that and sometimes you have to live your life with your heart and hope that it will be all okay. Recently, I walked away from something where my presence alone would only degrade and destroy the experience of another. I didn't want to, and I'm not accustomed to walking away from anything but I couldn't see a way through that would make it a positive experience for all. Certainly, it was a choice based on fear and involved people who are tentative to take an incalculable risk. (As I write this, I realize, that this perhaps, is my lesson.) I had another similar experience where the people weren't afraid to open up. They took a huge risk and the result was a new friendship for me and amazing friendships for my girls. I am glad I took this risk and I am so happy that despite a painful choice for me, I didn't cross my line. The two experiences hold each other in sharp relief.
Funny, when you draw a line, it tends to be in your face as if the universe is challenging you to cross it. It's as if the universe is testing me. "What circumstances WILL make you cross that line?"
Without throwing a person under the bus publicly, I will say that I have a "friend". And this "friend" has recently disappointed me immeasurably. He has crossed my line and as the light is shed on this act of betrayal, I have learned that he has crossed it over and over with no expectation of consequence throughout our friendship. I hold him to a higher standard as I do all of my friends largely because when you hold your friends to high standards, they tend to meet them. Instead, I've been lied to, while in the service of others, and I have indirectly contributed to the demise of a paradigm that we all worked so hard to create. Essentially, I am burnt. I have felt this awful feeling before. It is that same jaded feeling I had when I worked in the ER. Suddenly, I have no desire to open my heart to anyone anymore. I have the inexorable desire to retreat to within and protect my own. Now, I am faced with another choice. Stay and fight, or walk away. If I stay, I perpetuate the lie, and cross my line. If I walk away, I fix nothing and the status quo remains as it does in the previous example. Neither choice feels good. One choice maintains my integrity but the other supports those not directly involved. When do you stand on your soapbox and when do you prioritize the positive? And why the hell do I repeatedly have to be presented with this fucked up scenario? Clearly, this is a case of same shit, different day which leads me to believe I didn't really nail it the first time.
Admittedly, it's easy to be jaded. We expect the worst from others and close our hearts off to an amazing life because generally, the things that have the biggest payback are the ones that carry the highest risk. However, when we give our hearts freely, openly and take that ultimate risk, we are occasionally punished with pain, betrayal, and sadness, and it hurts. For awhile. I've taken this risk plenty of times and good things happened. I've gotten a pink sign with my name on it held by a beautiful 16 year-old girl, a kiss from a 5 year-old, a new dance move, a scissors take-down, a Mt. biking buddy, a guy to play guitar with whenever I go home, a friend who fixes my heart when it's broken and a husband who brings me coffee every morning. Yes, I've had my heart crushed a couple of times and perhaps the pain of not being 100% successful pleads to my competitive nature. "Win some you lose some" (never a philosophy I subscribed to. I prefer Win all, lose nothing, but I'm unrealistic like that). I don't want to get cancer again to fix my "jaded" problem. I'm really trying to find the balance. I'm trying to give people a chance to be good and awesome and true and keep them in my heart without letting them lay waste to it. I'm working on forgiveness, and the delicate balance of forgiving someone but letting them know that their choice is incompatible with my "line." I continue to be a work in progress and while hope is not a strategy, it's a tool. Good things lie ahead and they are unfolding every minute. I know they are there. I refuse to be jaded. I refuse to turn my back on humanity and I refuse to be put in the impossible situation of having to choose between the two.
12 years of working in the ER can make you jaded. You see the continuum of humanity from best to worst, young to old, birth to death. I knew this going in. I made a secret promise to myself that I would not allow myself to be jaded. My documentation would remain pristine. I would base all of my care on evidence-based research, and I would find a way to care for every soul that walked in the door regardless of their shortcomings. However, despite a nasty case of idealism, 12 years is a long time, and you can't imagine the atrocities that humans endure outside of everyone else's perfect microcosm. The average burnout rate for the emergency room nurse is anywhere from 5-7 years at which point, they retire to the PACU, post-anesthesia care unit. I made it to 12 years and realized that it was just a matter of time.
The long road to pessimism begins with a lot of people lying to you for drugs. It's too many mothers neglecting their children for boyfriends who don't care. It's too many elderly found on their living room floors after three days, dehydrated, malnourished and smelling of urine because they couldn't get up and no one visited them. Then there are the drunks who insist on peeing on the floor, right in front of you. It's a hundred stories of the worst possible example of humanity and you simply cannot believe that not only is the person in front of you the worst human story you've ever heard, there's one worse waiting in the emergency room waiting room. After awhile, you wake up and realize that you are, in fact, jaded.
Soon gallows humor is the only way to get through a shift. You begin to judge and point your finger and guilt everyone around you into making better choices. And they buy it because their lives are so immeasurably awful.
Quitting is not an option because by quitting, you essentially quit humanity. You quit the people. People that need you so much, even THEY don't know how much. Obviously, when you are not there, the ER continues on. You're not there, but SOMEBODY is, and your turn is coming back around soon enough. You go home, hug your kids, kiss your husband, and revel in the beauty that surrounds you, at least that's what you should do. Unfortunately, these stories eat away at you and it's hard to be happy knowing there's an element out there struggling for survival.
I used to fight my own internal battle. Who am I to change someone's stripes? Who am I to pass judgment on another because essentially, that is what I am doing by disapproving of their life choices and asking them to make different ones. Would my suggestions lead them to a better path? Possibly. Or, I'm just some spoiled, white bitch in my ivory tower and I really should just shut the fuck up. (Yes, I've been told that more times than I can count). That doesn't trigger my touchy-feely sense. You can take the high road all you want but inside, you stop giving a shit. You stop wanting to help. Soon you join the ranks of the miserable, and stop holding people to a higher standard because you're too bitter to see them achieve it.
My story is unique in that I did not retire peacefully to the PACU. Instead, I got Cancer. That fixed my attitude right quick. I repented my jadedness. I was given help and kindness while I fought my battle and not once was I judged for a poor choice. Okay, I didn't make that many poor choices, but sometimes a chocolate eclair just begged me to eat it because I might not be around much longer to enjoy that particularly evil sidestep. Yeah, I'm a rebel.
I swore that I would not return to being jaded. I realized that my days working in the ER are over because as an older person, my patience has worn thin. The potential for jaded is much higher, and I don't want my cancer fight to be for nothing, because if anything good came out of getting cancer, it was my appreciation for human life. All human life, including anyone and everyone who was willing to accept my love. My help. My kindness. My "human-ness."
I didn't plan to have that thrown back in my face. Again.
I've experienced some major disappointments this summer. I swear my heart was in the right place. I was reaching out. Reconnecting. Making amends for being "a fucking bitch" (because I sort of was, although I claim teenage ignorance and stupidity to SOME extent. I have since repented.). I've dedicated myself to my husband and my children serving our family the best way I know how, which is marginal at best. I nurtured my friendships and built many new ones. I opened myself to different ways of living, other people's politics and religion. I devoted myself to a the "sport" of mixed martial arts and gave my trust and respect to ANYONE with the nerve to step on the mat with me, and I brought as much positive energy as I could muster.
Recent events have disappointed me beyond belief. There's a lesson in the events of my summer and I'm pretty sure it's a lesson, I learned long ago but for some reason, the universe feels compelled to keep teaching it. Maybe it's not my lesson, but I keep getting sucked into the same lesson, and the pain of it is felt nonetheless.
Everyone has a line. They draw a line in the sand that implies, "cross this, and all bets are off. By crossing this line, you have compromised everything you stand for." What do I stand for? I stand for women and kids, nomadic river guides, families, Wild and Scenic Rivers, and people making the best choices they can so as not to find themselves in an ER begging for opiates and telling their nurse how nothing is their fault. It's not easy. Sometimes the choices we are given seem impossible. Often, the right choice is the most painful one. I had the best of intentions to share my heart, open it up and invite everyone in. For the most part, I was successful. I made some great friendships that deepen and grow everyday. I reconnected with some old friends from long ago. They have since brought new members into the fold. Husbands, wives, children and more friends. One of my friend's daughters danced "for Breast Cancer" in my name. I met her at my 30th High School reunion. These new connections have been meaningful and amazing to the point where I come to expect it. Allowing yourself to trust and give almost blindly is a choice. Being afraid to be hurt is a lot like being afraid cancer will come back. You just can't focus on that and sometimes you have to live your life with your heart and hope that it will be all okay. Recently, I walked away from something where my presence alone would only degrade and destroy the experience of another. I didn't want to, and I'm not accustomed to walking away from anything but I couldn't see a way through that would make it a positive experience for all. Certainly, it was a choice based on fear and involved people who are tentative to take an incalculable risk. (As I write this, I realize, that this perhaps, is my lesson.) I had another similar experience where the people weren't afraid to open up. They took a huge risk and the result was a new friendship for me and amazing friendships for my girls. I am glad I took this risk and I am so happy that despite a painful choice for me, I didn't cross my line. The two experiences hold each other in sharp relief.
Funny, when you draw a line, it tends to be in your face as if the universe is challenging you to cross it. It's as if the universe is testing me. "What circumstances WILL make you cross that line?"
Without throwing a person under the bus publicly, I will say that I have a "friend". And this "friend" has recently disappointed me immeasurably. He has crossed my line and as the light is shed on this act of betrayal, I have learned that he has crossed it over and over with no expectation of consequence throughout our friendship. I hold him to a higher standard as I do all of my friends largely because when you hold your friends to high standards, they tend to meet them. Instead, I've been lied to, while in the service of others, and I have indirectly contributed to the demise of a paradigm that we all worked so hard to create. Essentially, I am burnt. I have felt this awful feeling before. It is that same jaded feeling I had when I worked in the ER. Suddenly, I have no desire to open my heart to anyone anymore. I have the inexorable desire to retreat to within and protect my own. Now, I am faced with another choice. Stay and fight, or walk away. If I stay, I perpetuate the lie, and cross my line. If I walk away, I fix nothing and the status quo remains as it does in the previous example. Neither choice feels good. One choice maintains my integrity but the other supports those not directly involved. When do you stand on your soapbox and when do you prioritize the positive? And why the hell do I repeatedly have to be presented with this fucked up scenario? Clearly, this is a case of same shit, different day which leads me to believe I didn't really nail it the first time.
Admittedly, it's easy to be jaded. We expect the worst from others and close our hearts off to an amazing life because generally, the things that have the biggest payback are the ones that carry the highest risk. However, when we give our hearts freely, openly and take that ultimate risk, we are occasionally punished with pain, betrayal, and sadness, and it hurts. For awhile. I've taken this risk plenty of times and good things happened. I've gotten a pink sign with my name on it held by a beautiful 16 year-old girl, a kiss from a 5 year-old, a new dance move, a scissors take-down, a Mt. biking buddy, a guy to play guitar with whenever I go home, a friend who fixes my heart when it's broken and a husband who brings me coffee every morning. Yes, I've had my heart crushed a couple of times and perhaps the pain of not being 100% successful pleads to my competitive nature. "Win some you lose some" (never a philosophy I subscribed to. I prefer Win all, lose nothing, but I'm unrealistic like that). I don't want to get cancer again to fix my "jaded" problem. I'm really trying to find the balance. I'm trying to give people a chance to be good and awesome and true and keep them in my heart without letting them lay waste to it. I'm working on forgiveness, and the delicate balance of forgiving someone but letting them know that their choice is incompatible with my "line." I continue to be a work in progress and while hope is not a strategy, it's a tool. Good things lie ahead and they are unfolding every minute. I know they are there. I refuse to be jaded. I refuse to turn my back on humanity and I refuse to be put in the impossible situation of having to choose between the two.
Monday, October 5, 2015
Girl in a Country Song
"I'm. a. red. neck. woman. I ain't no high class broad. Just a product of my raisin'. I say hell yeah and yee haw! And I keep my Christmas lights on on my front porch all year long. And I know all the words to every Old Bocephus song. So here's to all my sisters out there, keepin it country. Lemme get a big hell yeah, from the redneck girls like me....." ~Gretchen Wilson
Nothing says redneck like shooting raccoons out of a tree. Not that I care what anyone thinks anymore at my age, but I've tried to avoid the housecoat and curlers in the front yard and listening to country western songs because it's just never been my thing really. I've caved to the new country songs because the lyrics are just too funny to pass up. I mean let's face it. How can you not get sucked in to a song that goes,
It's just too good too pass up and I end up talking with a southern drawl with my kids who think my country girl impressions are hilarious.
I usually make it a point to live life to the fullest because well, I had cancer. AND, you never know who's gonna throw you under a bus. Life is too short for just one music genre. Although....I have spent the last umpteen weeks feeling sorry for myself. Why? because I chose to. Life is about choice and if you choose to sit on your ass and be a speed bump, well, you might as well own it. I only have myself to blame, and if I choose to be a speed bump, well dammit, I'm gonna be a damn good one. Sometimes you just have to go to the bottom of the barrel before you can bubble up to the top. I think part of my angst was related to the fact that all good things come to an end, including summer. Having spent the summer of 2015 on the Pro Leisure Tour, there is a certain depression that accompanies reality and responsibility. My kids are back to school with an insane soccer schedule. My oldest daughter has thrown Middle School volleyball into the mix just to make me completely insane as if her "A.P" Algebra class and volunteering for the school field trip isn't enough. In the meantime, I picked up a job at a local Physical Therapy clinic to help out a friend. My husband is back on the road and life has settled back into it's degree of "normalcy" if you can ever call our life normal. And I picked up a distraction over the summer that creeps into my psyche from time to time and railroads my productivity.
Last night, the hubs and I had some conversation time. 3 raccoons were treed in our front yard at the ungodly hour of bedtime causing our cats to meow incessantly and the dog to be a hyperactive nightmare. Nobody was going to get any sleep with these three hooligans so close to the watering hole. Chalk it up to the fact that our kids keep forgetting to feed our animals in the morning because we are running out the door to get to school since everyone's alarm is set to a different time zone and nobody's internal clock is set to anything. Given the opportunity, we'd all sleep until 3, and every morning it's a scramble to not be last in the car. But I digress....
So no shit, there we were, getting our California redneck on by shooting raccoons out of a tree in the dark (because you just can't make this shit up). I tell my husband I'm depressed due to the fact that I can no longer conform to a society of ignorance, a bunch of caddy bitches who insist on dress coding my daughters for EVERY possible infraction, and a bunch of soccer idiots who insist on scheduling 2 and 3 games in a day on the weekends because no one else has anything better to do with their weekend with their ski boat inconveniently placed in storage.
My husband asks me to point a flashlight up in the tree. I am pessimistic that my husband is going to hit anything in the dark.
"How depressed are you?" he asks.
"Depressed enough to give your mother custody," I chide.
He fires a round into the darkness.
"That bad?"
"Yep, the Pro Leisure Tour ruined me."
Another round. He thinks he hit one. I am skeptical.
"Then don't come off," he says.
"Whaddya mean?" I ask.
"Stay on tour. Plan some trips around the soccer schedule. Fall is the best time of the year anyway."
I am flabbergasted by this revelation. Really? I can keep playing? I hadn't really thought of extending the tour but it sounded great to me.
POP! He fires another round into the darkness. Suddenly, we hear branches breaking and finally, THUD! A raccoon hits the deck. I am astounded. My husband beams with pride.
Now for all you animal lovers, don't get all righteous on me about raccoons. They are vicious. There is a serious overpopulation of them in our area, being near a river and they wreak havoc on garbage cans, feeding bowls and small animals. We have had an unbelievable epidemic of raccoons. We've tried trapping and relocating and it seems like they always find their way back to our house, hole up under our porch and terrorize anything bigger than a small dog. Raccoons, possums and skunks all fighting for real estate at our house puts the chaos into an already chaotic life. I don't need a screechfest everynight because all the forest critters are vying for the best sleeping spot. Fewer raccoons will not result in extinction and a quick death is best anyway rather than dying a slow death of starvation and forest fire smoke . If there were enough foxes and coyotes to take care of the problem, I'd be reluctant to shoot them out of a tree, but even the foxes and the coyotes are afraid of the raccoons. They are a menace.
5 more rounds into the darkness and still nothing. Instead, the remaining two scramble for higher branches. I'm really thinking these raccoons are not coming out of this tree tonight.
"So where's your next destination?" my husband asks.
I'm thinking somewhere warm. Texas? Grand Canyon? Moab? Zion? But it might be nice to depart the drought for a bit. Seattle? BC? There's also the issue of funding. I used my grocery budget to fund a couple of trips, and the Rogue adventures took their toll in food, gas, and Dutch Brothers coffee drinks. I need to settle at home for a bit to catch up on finances. However, I'm pretty stoked on the possibilities and the fact that the husband threw it out there makes it that much sweeter.
BAM! More branches breaking, wood pieces coming down into my eye while I'm looking up with the flashlight trying to get a glimpse of beady yellow eyes staring down at me. Suddenly, I can't see and i'm afraid a dead, bloody raccoon is going to land on my head. I run for cover. Sure enough, here comes Rocky. He hits an outdoor table and does a triple lindy onto the deck. He's dead. One remains and I am seriously impressed with not only my husband's aim but the learning curve on reloading. He shaved minutes off of his usual time.
I ponder my options. So many options for volunteering, projects, travel, visiting friends and once again, I'm overwhelmed.
POP! The third raccoon is hit but decides he's outta there. He heads down the trunk of the tree. Marek reloads and shoots him again. The raccoon waddles toward the wilderness at the edge of our property and disappears into the dark. I am flabbergasted. 3 raccoons out of the mix. What's next?
Well, first, our cats are going to live another day and get a good night sleep.
I realize that there's so much ahead that I didn't even realize that I never really left the Pro Leisure Tour. My kids are engrossed in soccer which means I get to go to sunny Visalia, CA one weekend in October. <read sarcasm> But then there is Phoenix, where my dashing husband will display his talents at his company's big blowout event. A friend is getting married in Santiago, Chile and given the earthquakes and flooding, I'm fairly certain that will be anything but dull. We return for State Cup Championships and San Francisco Ski Balls just long enough to pack for Mexico before Thanksgiving, San Diego for Thanksgiving and a Premier level tournament and before you know it, I'm back in Park City giving a lecture to a bunch of basketball players, with my OTHER best friend from High School.
So much life ahead. My depression fades away nicely and I am back to being myself. Next stop: Retail Therapy!
Nothing says redneck like shooting raccoons out of a tree. Not that I care what anyone thinks anymore at my age, but I've tried to avoid the housecoat and curlers in the front yard and listening to country western songs because it's just never been my thing really. I've caved to the new country songs because the lyrics are just too funny to pass up. I mean let's face it. How can you not get sucked in to a song that goes,
"Son of a gun she's fun to handle, and she packs a punch like a roman candle. She's a pack of black cats in a red paper wrapper, My little darlin' is a fire cracker......"~Josh Turner
or
"I could go for a tipsy tailgate kiss, Baby tast the moonshinin' off of your lips, I wanna see that want ya smile, Still got me hooded been hooked for awhile. If you got a bottle you ain't opened yet, And an empty spot beside ya in ya bed, If you got some room for a little regret, Let me know girl I've already left...." ~Cole Swindell
It's just too good too pass up and I end up talking with a southern drawl with my kids who think my country girl impressions are hilarious.
I usually make it a point to live life to the fullest because well, I had cancer. AND, you never know who's gonna throw you under a bus. Life is too short for just one music genre. Although....I have spent the last umpteen weeks feeling sorry for myself. Why? because I chose to. Life is about choice and if you choose to sit on your ass and be a speed bump, well, you might as well own it. I only have myself to blame, and if I choose to be a speed bump, well dammit, I'm gonna be a damn good one. Sometimes you just have to go to the bottom of the barrel before you can bubble up to the top. I think part of my angst was related to the fact that all good things come to an end, including summer. Having spent the summer of 2015 on the Pro Leisure Tour, there is a certain depression that accompanies reality and responsibility. My kids are back to school with an insane soccer schedule. My oldest daughter has thrown Middle School volleyball into the mix just to make me completely insane as if her "A.P" Algebra class and volunteering for the school field trip isn't enough. In the meantime, I picked up a job at a local Physical Therapy clinic to help out a friend. My husband is back on the road and life has settled back into it's degree of "normalcy" if you can ever call our life normal. And I picked up a distraction over the summer that creeps into my psyche from time to time and railroads my productivity.
Last night, the hubs and I had some conversation time. 3 raccoons were treed in our front yard at the ungodly hour of bedtime causing our cats to meow incessantly and the dog to be a hyperactive nightmare. Nobody was going to get any sleep with these three hooligans so close to the watering hole. Chalk it up to the fact that our kids keep forgetting to feed our animals in the morning because we are running out the door to get to school since everyone's alarm is set to a different time zone and nobody's internal clock is set to anything. Given the opportunity, we'd all sleep until 3, and every morning it's a scramble to not be last in the car. But I digress....
So no shit, there we were, getting our California redneck on by shooting raccoons out of a tree in the dark (because you just can't make this shit up). I tell my husband I'm depressed due to the fact that I can no longer conform to a society of ignorance, a bunch of caddy bitches who insist on dress coding my daughters for EVERY possible infraction, and a bunch of soccer idiots who insist on scheduling 2 and 3 games in a day on the weekends because no one else has anything better to do with their weekend with their ski boat inconveniently placed in storage.
My husband asks me to point a flashlight up in the tree. I am pessimistic that my husband is going to hit anything in the dark.
"How depressed are you?" he asks.
"Depressed enough to give your mother custody," I chide.
He fires a round into the darkness.
"That bad?"
"Yep, the Pro Leisure Tour ruined me."
Another round. He thinks he hit one. I am skeptical.
"Then don't come off," he says.
"Whaddya mean?" I ask.
"Stay on tour. Plan some trips around the soccer schedule. Fall is the best time of the year anyway."
I am flabbergasted by this revelation. Really? I can keep playing? I hadn't really thought of extending the tour but it sounded great to me.
POP! He fires another round into the darkness. Suddenly, we hear branches breaking and finally, THUD! A raccoon hits the deck. I am astounded. My husband beams with pride.
Now for all you animal lovers, don't get all righteous on me about raccoons. They are vicious. There is a serious overpopulation of them in our area, being near a river and they wreak havoc on garbage cans, feeding bowls and small animals. We have had an unbelievable epidemic of raccoons. We've tried trapping and relocating and it seems like they always find their way back to our house, hole up under our porch and terrorize anything bigger than a small dog. Raccoons, possums and skunks all fighting for real estate at our house puts the chaos into an already chaotic life. I don't need a screechfest everynight because all the forest critters are vying for the best sleeping spot. Fewer raccoons will not result in extinction and a quick death is best anyway rather than dying a slow death of starvation and forest fire smoke . If there were enough foxes and coyotes to take care of the problem, I'd be reluctant to shoot them out of a tree, but even the foxes and the coyotes are afraid of the raccoons. They are a menace.
5 more rounds into the darkness and still nothing. Instead, the remaining two scramble for higher branches. I'm really thinking these raccoons are not coming out of this tree tonight.
"So where's your next destination?" my husband asks.
I'm thinking somewhere warm. Texas? Grand Canyon? Moab? Zion? But it might be nice to depart the drought for a bit. Seattle? BC? There's also the issue of funding. I used my grocery budget to fund a couple of trips, and the Rogue adventures took their toll in food, gas, and Dutch Brothers coffee drinks. I need to settle at home for a bit to catch up on finances. However, I'm pretty stoked on the possibilities and the fact that the husband threw it out there makes it that much sweeter.
BAM! More branches breaking, wood pieces coming down into my eye while I'm looking up with the flashlight trying to get a glimpse of beady yellow eyes staring down at me. Suddenly, I can't see and i'm afraid a dead, bloody raccoon is going to land on my head. I run for cover. Sure enough, here comes Rocky. He hits an outdoor table and does a triple lindy onto the deck. He's dead. One remains and I am seriously impressed with not only my husband's aim but the learning curve on reloading. He shaved minutes off of his usual time.
I ponder my options. So many options for volunteering, projects, travel, visiting friends and once again, I'm overwhelmed.
POP! The third raccoon is hit but decides he's outta there. He heads down the trunk of the tree. Marek reloads and shoots him again. The raccoon waddles toward the wilderness at the edge of our property and disappears into the dark. I am flabbergasted. 3 raccoons out of the mix. What's next?
Well, first, our cats are going to live another day and get a good night sleep.
I realize that there's so much ahead that I didn't even realize that I never really left the Pro Leisure Tour. My kids are engrossed in soccer which means I get to go to sunny Visalia, CA one weekend in October. <read sarcasm> But then there is Phoenix, where my dashing husband will display his talents at his company's big blowout event. A friend is getting married in Santiago, Chile and given the earthquakes and flooding, I'm fairly certain that will be anything but dull. We return for State Cup Championships and San Francisco Ski Balls just long enough to pack for Mexico before Thanksgiving, San Diego for Thanksgiving and a Premier level tournament and before you know it, I'm back in Park City giving a lecture to a bunch of basketball players, with my OTHER best friend from High School.
So much life ahead. My depression fades away nicely and I am back to being myself. Next stop: Retail Therapy!
Monday, September 21, 2015
Young, Wild, & Free
It's a big year for a lot of my friends. This year, everyone turns 50. Many of the conversations we are having are centered around launching kids, aging parents and our own mortality. Thankfully, I have chosen a slightly different path by playing and traveling for much of my young life, having kids later than most of my friends and getting Cancer. I've lost all of my grandparents. My parents are still alive but life is hardly what I would call it. Both of my parents are 69 this year and both seem to spend their days waiting for imminent death. They are not healthy people and I have yet to figure out what brings them joy. What is the reason for this human experience? Is it to pine away in bitterness and anger over missed opportunities or the degradation of our physical bodies? Is it to leave this life with some sort of epiphany that will guide us to the next opportunity? Or does the light in our soul simply go out and that's it?
Who knows.
I'm not the first to ask this question nor will I be the last, but I have no qualms about sharing an interesting observation based on perspective and one of my very favorite quotes by Wayne Dyer.
"Change the way you see things and the things around you change."
Many of my friends are lamenting their 50th trip around the sun. No one wants to admit that they are 50 as if crossing over the 50th threshold is some sort of intolerable threshold. It's true that we begin to look older. Many of the men are gray, less fit, while the women are starting to show smile lines, a few gray hairs and body parts are heading southward. The bad choices of our young lives are starting to show outwardly and suddenly an AARP card is closer to our future. I am deathly afraid that my joints from the waste down are all going to start a mutiny. Already my left knee tells me that it's done with high impact activities and my right hip replacement is a constant reminder of my left hip's future. My cohort is aging. Aging is inevitable. We are all going to get old. That's just a reality, but how we age is another matter.
The death of a parent puts all of this in sharp perspective. Worse, is the slow decline of a parent who needs constant care. It grates on your soul in the sense that you know that your kids will one day have to take care of you in much the same way. Some of my friends have already given in. They've seen the end and have decided that pursuing love and joy and freedom are worthless because we're all just going to end up in the ground anyway, or in my case, go up in smoke. I am not deterred by this, having been a nurse for 12 years. I have already witnessed humanity's worst and I have already seen the extremes of the human life continuum. Life is what you make it. My husband's 93 year-old grandfather continues to smile and look positively toward his future as he witnesses great grandchildren, sunny days in southern California and continuing his few remaining friendships. He is not jaded one bit by the multiple years he endured taking care of his wife who suffered a slow decline of Alzheimer's and cancer. Instead, he is grateful for happy days between hard ones and the opportunity of a family visit.
For people turning 50 in my age group (mostly the women), no one wants to celebrate a birthday because it's an admission of age. It's a surrender. We are plagued by anxiety related to decreasing desirability to our male counterparts, that our post-menopausal state makes us less useful to the human race, and that our future is relegated to a title of "Grandma." As women, we can do a number of things to put off the effects of age. There are skin treatments, hair extensions, hair color, eyebrow pencils, artificial nails, eyelash extensions, make-up, perfume, and plastic surgery, none of which any woman is too principled to enlist in her quest to look a few years younger thus putting off the role of "old woman." Therefore, no one wants to broadcast their actual age, so celebrating a birthday is no longer actually celebrating. For what are we celebrating? Granny panties, reading glasses and support hose?
This is the part where I get on my proverbial soapbox and start scolding anyone who is grappling with their "mortality."
Life is about choice. You can choose to be happy or choose to be miserable. You can choose to get out in the world and make a difference or you can choose to wallow in your misery behind closed doors. You can choose to let a spouse guide you down a lifeless path or you can choose to make a stand that requires your spouse to live a life of joy and love at your side. You can choose to be affected by the bad news that streams in on the idiot box or you can choose to turn it off.
I choose life.
When you face a cancer diagnosis or the potential end of your life you realize how petty and stupid it is to choose sadness, shame, or suffering. It is ridiculous to waste your precious time on this Earth with people who don't value it. It is moronic to choose despair. Life is for living. It is an opportunity to celebrate each other and to cultivate love wherever you find it. It is to celebrate one more minute, one more opportunity, one more moment that you've been given.
Next year, I will be 50. I will shout it from the rooftops. I will share it with everyone I know because it will signify that I have endured. It will be evidence that I refused to choose despair or suffering or shame or sadness or being a moron. It will confirm that I value this life and the people in it, and that the choices I make are ones that continue to contribute to the youth of my heart. It will validate all of the efforts anyone and everyone has ever made to make my life worth living. The gratitude of my life is the proof that I love my husband, my children, my family, and my friends. It is the only proof of love. I choose to celebrate my 50th trip around the sun. I choose to be ecstatic that I made it! I GET TO be with my husband one more day. I GET TO watch the sun rise and fall on an Earth filled with oceans, trees, rivers, waterfalls, deserts, and mountains. I GET TO witness two young people declare their love for each other at a wedding. I GET TO ski, kayak, climb, play guitar, color, kick, punch, grapple, swim, or read a book. I GET TO love. Love my people and watch my children grow.
Sure, I've had to sacrifice some things including but not limited to body parts, flexibility, speed, strength, memory, my ability to perpetuate the species, or jump more than 12 inches vertically. It's true that our original capabilities change over time, and more sacrifices will be made.
But 50 years later, I am still here. I am proud to be here and I am grateful to those who have helped me get here.
Who knows.
I'm not the first to ask this question nor will I be the last, but I have no qualms about sharing an interesting observation based on perspective and one of my very favorite quotes by Wayne Dyer.
"Change the way you see things and the things around you change."
Many of my friends are lamenting their 50th trip around the sun. No one wants to admit that they are 50 as if crossing over the 50th threshold is some sort of intolerable threshold. It's true that we begin to look older. Many of the men are gray, less fit, while the women are starting to show smile lines, a few gray hairs and body parts are heading southward. The bad choices of our young lives are starting to show outwardly and suddenly an AARP card is closer to our future. I am deathly afraid that my joints from the waste down are all going to start a mutiny. Already my left knee tells me that it's done with high impact activities and my right hip replacement is a constant reminder of my left hip's future. My cohort is aging. Aging is inevitable. We are all going to get old. That's just a reality, but how we age is another matter.
The death of a parent puts all of this in sharp perspective. Worse, is the slow decline of a parent who needs constant care. It grates on your soul in the sense that you know that your kids will one day have to take care of you in much the same way. Some of my friends have already given in. They've seen the end and have decided that pursuing love and joy and freedom are worthless because we're all just going to end up in the ground anyway, or in my case, go up in smoke. I am not deterred by this, having been a nurse for 12 years. I have already witnessed humanity's worst and I have already seen the extremes of the human life continuum. Life is what you make it. My husband's 93 year-old grandfather continues to smile and look positively toward his future as he witnesses great grandchildren, sunny days in southern California and continuing his few remaining friendships. He is not jaded one bit by the multiple years he endured taking care of his wife who suffered a slow decline of Alzheimer's and cancer. Instead, he is grateful for happy days between hard ones and the opportunity of a family visit.
For people turning 50 in my age group (mostly the women), no one wants to celebrate a birthday because it's an admission of age. It's a surrender. We are plagued by anxiety related to decreasing desirability to our male counterparts, that our post-menopausal state makes us less useful to the human race, and that our future is relegated to a title of "Grandma." As women, we can do a number of things to put off the effects of age. There are skin treatments, hair extensions, hair color, eyebrow pencils, artificial nails, eyelash extensions, make-up, perfume, and plastic surgery, none of which any woman is too principled to enlist in her quest to look a few years younger thus putting off the role of "old woman." Therefore, no one wants to broadcast their actual age, so celebrating a birthday is no longer actually celebrating. For what are we celebrating? Granny panties, reading glasses and support hose?
This is the part where I get on my proverbial soapbox and start scolding anyone who is grappling with their "mortality."
Life is about choice. You can choose to be happy or choose to be miserable. You can choose to get out in the world and make a difference or you can choose to wallow in your misery behind closed doors. You can choose to let a spouse guide you down a lifeless path or you can choose to make a stand that requires your spouse to live a life of joy and love at your side. You can choose to be affected by the bad news that streams in on the idiot box or you can choose to turn it off.
I choose life.
When you face a cancer diagnosis or the potential end of your life you realize how petty and stupid it is to choose sadness, shame, or suffering. It is ridiculous to waste your precious time on this Earth with people who don't value it. It is moronic to choose despair. Life is for living. It is an opportunity to celebrate each other and to cultivate love wherever you find it. It is to celebrate one more minute, one more opportunity, one more moment that you've been given.
Next year, I will be 50. I will shout it from the rooftops. I will share it with everyone I know because it will signify that I have endured. It will be evidence that I refused to choose despair or suffering or shame or sadness or being a moron. It will confirm that I value this life and the people in it, and that the choices I make are ones that continue to contribute to the youth of my heart. It will validate all of the efforts anyone and everyone has ever made to make my life worth living. The gratitude of my life is the proof that I love my husband, my children, my family, and my friends. It is the only proof of love. I choose to celebrate my 50th trip around the sun. I choose to be ecstatic that I made it! I GET TO be with my husband one more day. I GET TO watch the sun rise and fall on an Earth filled with oceans, trees, rivers, waterfalls, deserts, and mountains. I GET TO witness two young people declare their love for each other at a wedding. I GET TO ski, kayak, climb, play guitar, color, kick, punch, grapple, swim, or read a book. I GET TO love. Love my people and watch my children grow.
Sure, I've had to sacrifice some things including but not limited to body parts, flexibility, speed, strength, memory, my ability to perpetuate the species, or jump more than 12 inches vertically. It's true that our original capabilities change over time, and more sacrifices will be made.
But 50 years later, I am still here. I am proud to be here and I am grateful to those who have helped me get here.
Monday, September 14, 2015
Where the River Runs Deep
"It takes a minute to have a crush on someone, an hour to like someone, and a day to love someone... but it takes a lifetime to forget someone." ~ Kahlil Gibran
Do you remember what it was like to fall in love? To look at someone and lose yourself in them so deeply with all of your senses heightened to superhuman levels? Do you remember the smell of their cologne or the essence of their genetic humanity that made the whole world magically vanish? The depth of the color of their eyes? The softness of their mouth as they spoke and the sound of their voice that vibrated in your chest as all other sound around it was silenced? I remember this feeling, a feeling I've experienced a handful of times, a beautiful distraction that made me forget where I was, who I was with and what I wanted to do with my life. It put me on my heels and speared me clear through.
All I wanted was him.
However, for a time, I was in no shape to love someone. I could barely love myself after surviving an onslaught of assaults on my heart that left me wondering if I was lovable, or worthy of the gift of my own happiness. After too many dead ends, I realized that before I could love someone else, I had to learn how. Consequently, I left my life undone and ran to a place where I couldn't be found.
I wanted to hide. I wanted to wallow in my own sadness, listening to sappy love songs, watching romantic comedies, and rowing my own boat through a scenic wilderness with just enough transient human connection to keep me from falling off the edge of my sanity. I had readied myself for a lifetime of solitude. While my friends all coupled up and started families, I read water. I learned of eddy lines and reverse hydraulics and what they would do to floating rubber or flailing limbs. I studied cubic feet per second and how a river changed with more or less water. Less was not always more and more was never less. I fell in love with the river, the smell of it, the sound of how it fell over the rocks and how it meandered through changing miles of rolling hills, mountains, deep narrow canyons, over waterfalls, past hot springs, and through flat, open space.
The river ran regardless of the weather, encountering blistering heat where I had to jump in every 20 minutes to keep from melting, and driving rain that required technical tarp set-ups and knowledge of a handful of knots like a clove hitch to accomplish them. I remember the satisfaction of an ice cold, carbonated adult beverage at the end of a long, hot, windy day or hot coffee on cool, misty mornings that served both the purpose of providing warmth to the inside of my shivering body and the comfort of a warm mug in my hands like an old friend.
It was this existence that I ran to when my heart was in pieces and I felt both lost and found all in the same place. I wanted this to be my life, away from the scene of a ski town or the drama of immaturity. It was here and then that he walked in and turned me inside out. He changed my world, and drew my focus away from my purpose. I remember how I felt inside, the stupid words I managed to mutter with no force of breath left because I couldn't breathe. I was angry that he took my plans and trashed them with his sparkling smile, tanned body and soft, long, brown hair. I felt cheated by fate and yet, engulfed in his presence. I remember it all like it was yesterday and I was convinced (and hopeful) that I would never, could never, fall in love with anyone or anything like that again. I caved in to love and beauty. I shut my eyes, surrendered to love and solitude with blind faith, and I fell off the face of the Earth.
Years later, I opened my eyes and returned to my hometown after enough time passed that the scars had grown over, the river had healed my soul and it was time to return to the mountains. It felt good to be home. The friends I stayed in touch with over the years evolved into amazing people through their own set of trials and tribulations. We are all older, a little wiser, and far more composed than our younger counterparts. Our kids are now friends and I find that the people I once loved through friendship are now my source of strength as I watch how amazing their kids turn out to be. Love has since changed. It is not the raging storm that consumed my being back in my 20's. It is secure and quiet. Like the river, it is a current that runs deep and drives a solemn path. I have a transformed idea of love and that it's design is not to torment but rather to wash over me and comfort me through times good and bad. I Corinthians is true: Love never ends. The currents of love do not replace another or push others out of the way. Instead, the currents run in layers and flow unchanged. Some currents are deeper than others, some are tributaries to others. I wondered how deep those currents ran, specifically one current, a current I had turned my back on so many years ago.
This summer, I dove deep. 30 years deep. My expectation was that love had diminished in it's power, reduced to a trickle or dried up entirely. Like the river that healed my soul, I owed this current a debt and I came to pay it. I expected that it would be gentle and loving, happy to embrace my return, and happy to see that my navigation skills had greatly improved. Maybe it would have enough compassion to float me once again calmly and quietly with renewed serenity.
Instead, I was blindsided at put-in.
I felt like I was dangling over the top of a Class V drop. My river was dropping fast into a canyon without portage. My stomach fell out, and a million butterflies took its place. The rest of the world faded away. Ambient noise drowned out to a low muffle. I stopped being hungry or thirsty and I felt my heart grow twice its size and beat three times as fast. I couldn't speak. My adrenals were in overdrive and I was double-crossed by my body. I maintained my composure all the while my overactive nervous system relentlessly betrayed me.
It was in his mannerisms, so familiar, so known to me that the reminder was almost a shock that I had forgotten. His smile, his hands, his eyes all in collusion against me. I didn't think it was possible that I could so easily abandon my morality, my evolution, my over-principled value system. I felt my hands shake. After a lifetime of pushing my limits, I was grateful that I could conceal what was going on internally. Thankfully, I had lived a life of channeling my surging adrenaline whether it was in a World Cup starting gate, the top of a Class V rapid, or the ER, trying to save someone's life. In this moment, I was trying to save mine and keep it a secret. There was a point where I didn't think my legs would hold me when I stood. I cursed wretched, high-heel sandals that conspired against me.
He looked right through me. I felt completely transparent. It was almost too much for me to bear, and there were moments when I yearned for a rescue, and others where help was not welcome. When we said goodbye, there was a moment I didn't want to let go. The scent of him, the warmth of him, the way my body fit with his, all made me forget myself in that instant. He was beautiful to me, inside and out and I had nothing to defend myself. I looked for any negative thing to counter the upheaval. He's older, perhaps less fit than I remember.... a touch arrogant? or simply confident? But for every dealbreaker, there was something new. He was smarter, more composed, and engaging. He was forgiving, and attentive. All of the obvious grievances of youth had dissolved into deference and divinity, composure and kindness. He was lovely.
I completely lost myself, and I was angry that my heart had deceived me so readily. As I sank deeper and deeper into the feeling, I recognized the familiarity of love like my favorite pair of worn-out jeans. I paid my respects to a current that once washed over me and kept me safe at a time in my life when I could have so easily drown. In this moment, I felt like I might drown in a different way. He held me captive like a river with no eddies, so I cinched down my lifejacket, pointed myself blindly downstream and threw my oars forward. Rowing upstream was pointless. Take me where you will, over the falls, through the maelstrom, it didn't matter. Rip, wrap or flip, I was overcome.
And then it was over.
Not too long after I found myself bathing in a current of blissful ignorance, the river changed. It made a couple of sharp turns, and as the river's gradient steepened, it dove into a narrow canyon where I couldn't fit through.
Naturally, I spent a good time wondering how I may have behaved irresponsibly. I even tried to fix what I thought was broken, arrogantly presuming I broke it, only to make it worse. Wounded, and remorseful, I have internalized the loss and found numerous ways to take responsibility for my sadness. Silence is my penance and I am of my own undoing.
I returned home and sang the song of rivers deep. The tributaries of home reminded me that a river's path and power cannot be harnessed, and that believing my best intentions can have an impact on such a force is arrogant and foolish. The river always wins.
"Let the river run, even if it runs away."
"Sometimes you just have to hike out and let the river go its way. Live to float another day." A river of wisdom following me everywhere.
My heart hurts.
I pray that time will diminish my memory of it enough to ease the discomfort. I am reassured somewhat that the headwaters are clear and pristine, warm and gentle and flowing in the right direction. But I am sad that they remain that way only in my absence. Perhaps if I look away long enough, this love, this stream will settle back into its original resting place, unchanged by my attempt to reconcile it, enriched by the encounter, and happy with its own course. Until then, the memory of it carries me downstream and I am grateful that I reconciled my debt to it and gave over to it, allowing that flood of memories to wash the riverbed clean.
Do you remember what it was like to fall in love? To look at someone and lose yourself in them so deeply with all of your senses heightened to superhuman levels? Do you remember the smell of their cologne or the essence of their genetic humanity that made the whole world magically vanish? The depth of the color of their eyes? The softness of their mouth as they spoke and the sound of their voice that vibrated in your chest as all other sound around it was silenced? I remember this feeling, a feeling I've experienced a handful of times, a beautiful distraction that made me forget where I was, who I was with and what I wanted to do with my life. It put me on my heels and speared me clear through.
All I wanted was him.
However, for a time, I was in no shape to love someone. I could barely love myself after surviving an onslaught of assaults on my heart that left me wondering if I was lovable, or worthy of the gift of my own happiness. After too many dead ends, I realized that before I could love someone else, I had to learn how. Consequently, I left my life undone and ran to a place where I couldn't be found.
I wanted to hide. I wanted to wallow in my own sadness, listening to sappy love songs, watching romantic comedies, and rowing my own boat through a scenic wilderness with just enough transient human connection to keep me from falling off the edge of my sanity. I had readied myself for a lifetime of solitude. While my friends all coupled up and started families, I read water. I learned of eddy lines and reverse hydraulics and what they would do to floating rubber or flailing limbs. I studied cubic feet per second and how a river changed with more or less water. Less was not always more and more was never less. I fell in love with the river, the smell of it, the sound of how it fell over the rocks and how it meandered through changing miles of rolling hills, mountains, deep narrow canyons, over waterfalls, past hot springs, and through flat, open space.
The river ran regardless of the weather, encountering blistering heat where I had to jump in every 20 minutes to keep from melting, and driving rain that required technical tarp set-ups and knowledge of a handful of knots like a clove hitch to accomplish them. I remember the satisfaction of an ice cold, carbonated adult beverage at the end of a long, hot, windy day or hot coffee on cool, misty mornings that served both the purpose of providing warmth to the inside of my shivering body and the comfort of a warm mug in my hands like an old friend.It was this existence that I ran to when my heart was in pieces and I felt both lost and found all in the same place. I wanted this to be my life, away from the scene of a ski town or the drama of immaturity. It was here and then that he walked in and turned me inside out. He changed my world, and drew my focus away from my purpose. I remember how I felt inside, the stupid words I managed to mutter with no force of breath left because I couldn't breathe. I was angry that he took my plans and trashed them with his sparkling smile, tanned body and soft, long, brown hair. I felt cheated by fate and yet, engulfed in his presence. I remember it all like it was yesterday and I was convinced (and hopeful) that I would never, could never, fall in love with anyone or anything like that again. I caved in to love and beauty. I shut my eyes, surrendered to love and solitude with blind faith, and I fell off the face of the Earth.
Years later, I opened my eyes and returned to my hometown after enough time passed that the scars had grown over, the river had healed my soul and it was time to return to the mountains. It felt good to be home. The friends I stayed in touch with over the years evolved into amazing people through their own set of trials and tribulations. We are all older, a little wiser, and far more composed than our younger counterparts. Our kids are now friends and I find that the people I once loved through friendship are now my source of strength as I watch how amazing their kids turn out to be. Love has since changed. It is not the raging storm that consumed my being back in my 20's. It is secure and quiet. Like the river, it is a current that runs deep and drives a solemn path. I have a transformed idea of love and that it's design is not to torment but rather to wash over me and comfort me through times good and bad. I Corinthians is true: Love never ends. The currents of love do not replace another or push others out of the way. Instead, the currents run in layers and flow unchanged. Some currents are deeper than others, some are tributaries to others. I wondered how deep those currents ran, specifically one current, a current I had turned my back on so many years ago.
This summer, I dove deep. 30 years deep. My expectation was that love had diminished in it's power, reduced to a trickle or dried up entirely. Like the river that healed my soul, I owed this current a debt and I came to pay it. I expected that it would be gentle and loving, happy to embrace my return, and happy to see that my navigation skills had greatly improved. Maybe it would have enough compassion to float me once again calmly and quietly with renewed serenity.
Instead, I was blindsided at put-in.
I felt like I was dangling over the top of a Class V drop. My river was dropping fast into a canyon without portage. My stomach fell out, and a million butterflies took its place. The rest of the world faded away. Ambient noise drowned out to a low muffle. I stopped being hungry or thirsty and I felt my heart grow twice its size and beat three times as fast. I couldn't speak. My adrenals were in overdrive and I was double-crossed by my body. I maintained my composure all the while my overactive nervous system relentlessly betrayed me.It was in his mannerisms, so familiar, so known to me that the reminder was almost a shock that I had forgotten. His smile, his hands, his eyes all in collusion against me. I didn't think it was possible that I could so easily abandon my morality, my evolution, my over-principled value system. I felt my hands shake. After a lifetime of pushing my limits, I was grateful that I could conceal what was going on internally. Thankfully, I had lived a life of channeling my surging adrenaline whether it was in a World Cup starting gate, the top of a Class V rapid, or the ER, trying to save someone's life. In this moment, I was trying to save mine and keep it a secret. There was a point where I didn't think my legs would hold me when I stood. I cursed wretched, high-heel sandals that conspired against me.
He looked right through me. I felt completely transparent. It was almost too much for me to bear, and there were moments when I yearned for a rescue, and others where help was not welcome. When we said goodbye, there was a moment I didn't want to let go. The scent of him, the warmth of him, the way my body fit with his, all made me forget myself in that instant. He was beautiful to me, inside and out and I had nothing to defend myself. I looked for any negative thing to counter the upheaval. He's older, perhaps less fit than I remember.... a touch arrogant? or simply confident? But for every dealbreaker, there was something new. He was smarter, more composed, and engaging. He was forgiving, and attentive. All of the obvious grievances of youth had dissolved into deference and divinity, composure and kindness. He was lovely.
And then it was over.
Not too long after I found myself bathing in a current of blissful ignorance, the river changed. It made a couple of sharp turns, and as the river's gradient steepened, it dove into a narrow canyon where I couldn't fit through.
Naturally, I spent a good time wondering how I may have behaved irresponsibly. I even tried to fix what I thought was broken, arrogantly presuming I broke it, only to make it worse. Wounded, and remorseful, I have internalized the loss and found numerous ways to take responsibility for my sadness. Silence is my penance and I am of my own undoing.
I returned home and sang the song of rivers deep. The tributaries of home reminded me that a river's path and power cannot be harnessed, and that believing my best intentions can have an impact on such a force is arrogant and foolish. The river always wins.
"Let the river run, even if it runs away."
"Sometimes you just have to hike out and let the river go its way. Live to float another day." A river of wisdom following me everywhere.
My heart hurts.
I pray that time will diminish my memory of it enough to ease the discomfort. I am reassured somewhat that the headwaters are clear and pristine, warm and gentle and flowing in the right direction. But I am sad that they remain that way only in my absence. Perhaps if I look away long enough, this love, this stream will settle back into its original resting place, unchanged by my attempt to reconcile it, enriched by the encounter, and happy with its own course. Until then, the memory of it carries me downstream and I am grateful that I reconciled my debt to it and gave over to it, allowing that flood of memories to wash the riverbed clean.Sunday, September 13, 2015
Boys 'round Here
Chalk it up to cougarism. I don't know what it is. I've noticed that lately anyone under the age of 40 is incredibly good-looking. Not just the boys either. Most of the women and men in the 20-40 age range are stunning. I mean this in the kindest of ways. It's not a sexual thing. It just seems like young people are really beautiful. I'm being totally superficial and shallow and akin to my male counterparts, but it seems like I'm attracted to beauty everywhere.
Our family got off the Rogue river and one of our traditions is to get soft serve ice cream at the Galice store. It is also a tradition to stop at the local Dutch Brother's coffee cart and get an ice cold "Kicker" which is coffee and cream and ice and some sort of torani flavoring. We decided to forego the softserve and go straight for the coffee place because they have milkshakes and Zoe wanted chocolate, unavailable at our usual ice cream stop.
So we pull in to the drive-thru, with our 4-day scruffiness and all our river toys tied down to the trailer behind us. Standing at the drive-thru window is this young, scrawny, 20-something with long dark hair and maybe 3-4 days of facial hair growth popular among the metrosexual set these days.
"Hey guys! What can I get for you?"
"A hotel room?" I whisper to my husband. He laughs. We place our order for as many coffee drinks as we can possibly drink and for as long as I can stand to watch this kid make them.
"Holy crap that guy is cute," I exclaim.
"MOM!!" Screaming from the back of our truck camper, my 13 year-old shares her disgust.
"What? He's cute! Where's the harm in that?"
I can't help but wonder how old he is. I'm convinced I'm going to hell because I'm probably old enough to be his mother.
"You're probably old enough to be his mother," my husband says, smiling his sexy smile, and overcompensating for his dirtbaggedness.
"Thanks Honey, love you too. If you play your cards right, you might be able to ride this kid's wave later."
My husband looks hopeful and decides that allowing me to live out my little, coffee guy fantasy is probably a good idea. More coffee drinks.
I wondered if our Dutch Bros. Barista would object to letting me take his picture.
"MOM! NO!" screams the 13 year-old from the back. I roll my eyes. Meanwhile, my eleven year-old sees no problem with my obvious departure from decorum. My kids both know that I am not cut from the same mold as most moms. I drive fast, swear respectfully, and admire youthful beauty without acting inappropriately, all of which are important lessons for young girls to learn early along with changing truck tires and starting a campfire, on the first try. They both know I have no filter or inhibition and fear the possibilities of what I am capable of.
"Have you forgotten that you are married?" interrogates my oldest.
"Nope!" I proclaim with a smile and a wink. The only difference between being married and not being married when you run into a cute guy, is if you're married, you're already guaranteed to end up with the cutest guy in the room.
More laughs from my husband as we try to ascertain cute guy's age. He asks us where we are from, if we are coming from or going to the river, how our trip was etc. My husband digs into his story. He met his girlfriend in college, (whew, he's at least 22! Maybe I won't go to hell!) and moved from big city, hometown to po-dunk, Oregon to be with her. He had a pretty smile. There is something about a long-haired kid with a twinkle in his eye and a winning smile that gets me everytime. It reminds me of a guy I met about 23 years ago, full of love and sparkle with his whole life ahead of him.
I just so happened to be sitting right next to him, except he's 23 years older, a little grayer and knows me far more than I'd like to admit. As I swooned over my 20-something coffee guy, and overanalyzed my husband's elderly features, it dawned on me that I, too, am not the 20-something girl on the outside. In fact, I shuddered to think that had I been properly introduced to cute, coffee guy, he may have called me "Mrs. Robinson." Because that is actually my name. Oh the irony.
"Whipped cream on that?"
"Uh-huh," I nodded. Whipped cream on everything please. (I never order whipped cream.....)
"Okay, that'll be $37.95. Would you guys like a carrier for all these?"
"That's probably a good idea."
We drove away with more caffeine to keep us awake for a week and I lamented that my temporary fantasy had come to an end. While I was still going home with the hottest guy in town (a known commodity on all fronts), I couldn't help but wonder if coffee guy was really that cute or if my mid-life crisis is messing with my head.
I am still wishing I had taken his picture.
Our family got off the Rogue river and one of our traditions is to get soft serve ice cream at the Galice store. It is also a tradition to stop at the local Dutch Brother's coffee cart and get an ice cold "Kicker" which is coffee and cream and ice and some sort of torani flavoring. We decided to forego the softserve and go straight for the coffee place because they have milkshakes and Zoe wanted chocolate, unavailable at our usual ice cream stop.
So we pull in to the drive-thru, with our 4-day scruffiness and all our river toys tied down to the trailer behind us. Standing at the drive-thru window is this young, scrawny, 20-something with long dark hair and maybe 3-4 days of facial hair growth popular among the metrosexual set these days.
"Hey guys! What can I get for you?"
"A hotel room?" I whisper to my husband. He laughs. We place our order for as many coffee drinks as we can possibly drink and for as long as I can stand to watch this kid make them.
"Holy crap that guy is cute," I exclaim.
"MOM!!" Screaming from the back of our truck camper, my 13 year-old shares her disgust.
"What? He's cute! Where's the harm in that?"
I can't help but wonder how old he is. I'm convinced I'm going to hell because I'm probably old enough to be his mother.
"You're probably old enough to be his mother," my husband says, smiling his sexy smile, and overcompensating for his dirtbaggedness.
"Thanks Honey, love you too. If you play your cards right, you might be able to ride this kid's wave later."
My husband looks hopeful and decides that allowing me to live out my little, coffee guy fantasy is probably a good idea. More coffee drinks.
I wondered if our Dutch Bros. Barista would object to letting me take his picture.
"MOM! NO!" screams the 13 year-old from the back. I roll my eyes. Meanwhile, my eleven year-old sees no problem with my obvious departure from decorum. My kids both know that I am not cut from the same mold as most moms. I drive fast, swear respectfully, and admire youthful beauty without acting inappropriately, all of which are important lessons for young girls to learn early along with changing truck tires and starting a campfire, on the first try. They both know I have no filter or inhibition and fear the possibilities of what I am capable of.
"Have you forgotten that you are married?" interrogates my oldest.
"Nope!" I proclaim with a smile and a wink. The only difference between being married and not being married when you run into a cute guy, is if you're married, you're already guaranteed to end up with the cutest guy in the room.
More laughs from my husband as we try to ascertain cute guy's age. He asks us where we are from, if we are coming from or going to the river, how our trip was etc. My husband digs into his story. He met his girlfriend in college, (whew, he's at least 22! Maybe I won't go to hell!) and moved from big city, hometown to po-dunk, Oregon to be with her. He had a pretty smile. There is something about a long-haired kid with a twinkle in his eye and a winning smile that gets me everytime. It reminds me of a guy I met about 23 years ago, full of love and sparkle with his whole life ahead of him.
I just so happened to be sitting right next to him, except he's 23 years older, a little grayer and knows me far more than I'd like to admit. As I swooned over my 20-something coffee guy, and overanalyzed my husband's elderly features, it dawned on me that I, too, am not the 20-something girl on the outside. In fact, I shuddered to think that had I been properly introduced to cute, coffee guy, he may have called me "Mrs. Robinson." Because that is actually my name. Oh the irony.
"Whipped cream on that?"
"Uh-huh," I nodded. Whipped cream on everything please. (I never order whipped cream.....)
"Okay, that'll be $37.95. Would you guys like a carrier for all these?"
"That's probably a good idea."
We drove away with more caffeine to keep us awake for a week and I lamented that my temporary fantasy had come to an end. While I was still going home with the hottest guy in town (a known commodity on all fronts), I couldn't help but wonder if coffee guy was really that cute or if my mid-life crisis is messing with my head.
I am still wishing I had taken his picture.
Saturday, September 12, 2015
Because We Can
This is my best friend. It's an ammo can. I got it in 1993 when I got a job as a river guide with ECHO. Ammo cans are ideal waterproof carrying cases. They are designed to keep your ammunition dry, so why not other stuff?
Wikipedia explains an "Ammunition Box or cartouche box is a container designed for safe transport and storage of ammunition. It is typically made of metal and labelled with caliber, quantity, and manufacturing date or lot number. A rubber gasket is commonly found in the hinged lid to protect the ammunition from moisture damage.
The resealing ammunition box is largely a NATO tradition. Warsaw Pact nations typically stored and transported ammunition in single-use "spam cans". They had crates that had a sealed zinc lining on the inside. In World War II, Duct tape was used to seal opened ammo cans.
(Ammunition Box, Wikipedia, 2008)
(Ammunition Box, Wikipedia, 2008)
So that's kinda cool right? My best friend is a war hero. It is also MY hero as it has kept the contents of my personal life safe and dry for 22 years. I know it seems weird but I love my can. It never lives far from me and has a lot of important stuff in it. It keeps my secrets, knows what I need when I need it and protects the photo of my beloved.
Over the years, it has filled up. The can of a young woman is far different from that of an old one. In my younger days, it carried a book, my headlamp, toothbrush/toothpaste, hairbrush, razor, deoderant, some kind of greasy hand lotion to keep my skin from cracking, sunscreen, sunglasses, a thermarest repair kit, a walkman, a nut driver tool and a pair of channel locks. I also kept a typed copy of "The Lorax" by Dr. Seuss in there. I liked to read it on river trips to remind people how important it is to take care of rivers and the wilderness and how easily we can become disconnected from our outdoor world. Of course, as a young woman, I also carried multiple forms of birth control. Let's face it. The river is a pretty romantic place...and my boyfriend was a river guide too. No way would I be caught without.
On commercial river trips, we left the river's shore early. My can would be tied down last as we pulled away from the river's shore. I had about six or seven carabiners clipped to the handle. It was a handy, accessible spot for whenever I needed to clip a waterbottle to my boat or someone's personal dry bag. It's always good to have carabiners around when you wrap a raft so their empty presence on my lid was almost homage to the force that kept me from actually wrapping. Generally, when we got on the river, I would have a little coffee left. I would bring it and row and when my coffee cup was empty, I'd clip the handle of my mug to the handle of my can. They were symbiotic partners, unique to my setup, representing and taking care of me on the river.
The contents of a girls' ammo can is pretty personal as you can see and you didn't want just anyone getting into it, which is precisely why I wallpapered it with identifying stickers. We didn't have too many skiers on our crew so it was pretty obvious which can was mine. I'm proud that I have a U.S. Ski Team sticker from 1993 (my first year guiding) and one from 1988 (my last year ski racing). They remain on my can reminding me of good times in far away lands where the snow falls deep and light and the jagertee flows free. A few former product sponsor stickers also don the sides. Marker bindings, Bolle sunglasses, Lange boots. There's a "Carving the White" sticker which was a Greg Stump production that I did some ski footage for. Of course, there's an ECHO sticker just in case someone wonders which dumbass river guide lost her can off the gear truck.....The big dogs sticker represents the only pair of shorts I like to wear on the river, fast-drying and covering all my crucial girl parts while I'm high-siding in some hole that has managed to grab my boat and take me for a rodeo ride. Truthfully, I was hoping for sponsorship but exposure is simply not the same.
Inside my can is a collection of items that would probably clutter the corners of my life, but in my can they represent an important snapshot of my time on the river. Each item had, and still has, a purpose. I've taken the birth control pills out and replaced them with cancer meds and vitamins. I keep a condom in there for my young guide friends who find themselves without one on day 3. It's really just a good luck charm but occasionally, you get to make someone's day. It also bumps my street cred in the guide community. At my age, I need all the help I can get. I have reading glasses, 2 pairs, in my can. One to wear, one to drop in the river. I have two lights, a headlamp and a booklight because I can't see anything anymore thanks to too many birthdays. The brush, the razor and the deoderant have all come out because I really don't care what my hair looks like under my hat and the river washes away much of the stench before bedtime. I can count on my 13 year-old to bring all that stuff now which frees up some space for more important items. I suppose if I were working, I'd care a little more (for the guest's sake), but we Robinsons try to reconnect with our inner dirtbag on our river trips and being one on the outside helps that process along nicely. The walkman is replaced by an iPod shuffle. Handy size reduction frees up more space for other fun stuff like glow sticks or a deck of "Cards Against Humanity." Other stuff remains inside like my Leatherman tool, nut driver tool, channel locks, pocket knife (super sharp), and AAA batteries (replacing the extra AA batteries for my new headlamp). The Lorax is still there as is a photo on the inside of the lid of my half-sister who came down the river about 17 years ago. She was Stella's age at the time. She has three kids now. I open the lid and I am reminded of not just my youth but hers and the life my daughters have ahead of them. I hope they find the river before I did and it shapes them in even more meaningful ways than it did me.
Soon we will embark on that time-honored tradition of buying their first can and filling it once again with the acoutrements of a young river girl, wallpapering it with stickers of the day to keep the contents private. I'm imagining soccer balls and surfboards, and shuddering at the idea of my girls being grown up enough to need the stuff I once filled my can with.
When I'm off of the river the can sits in my closet, calling out to me that it's time to go back, just like an old friend. I keep it packed and ready just in case friends call and tell me they just got their Grand Canyon permit and a spot opened up for me to row a gearboat, tomorrow, a river guide's dream. I can be ready in minutes. Looking forward to more adventures ahead with my ammo can. I might have to replace a gasket or add some stickers to balance the anachronism. Until then. We wait. And pray for rain and snow.
Thursday, September 10, 2015
River Flows in You
We just got off the Rogue River near Grant's Pass, Oregon. I worked there as a river guide for 3 (and a half) seasons in the mid 90's taking unsuspecting outdoor enthusiasts down 38 miles of wild and scenic wilderness. The Rogue is frought with wildlife. Our first 15 minutes, we encountered a bald eagle flying majestically through the canyon while Osprey tried to pick him off in-flight like some kind of World War II air battle. It's an impressive display of nature where the Osprey attack the Eagle and the Eagle simply rambles off as if nothing happened. It's that moment where everybody on the river trip looks at each other, wide-eyed and telepathically conveys, "Did anyone else just see that? Did that just happen?"It's also about the time when someone realizes they forgot something crucial at put-in or forgot to put their non-waterproof item in a waterproof container. It used to be my job to make sure that not only did the Eagle v. Osprey show get witnessed, but that no one had their car keys in their pocket or their iPhone sitting out. I used to be pretty good at it too. Almost 20 years later, I wondered if I was still any good at it.
This summer, Marek and I built our ideal down river craft, a 16' Sotar with a Down River 4-bay frame decked out with diamond plate rails, a trailer hatch, 3 composite oars with ash blades, a custom dry box to fit one of the frame bays and the Bugatti of all coolers, a Yeti 160. I'm sure you are thinking blah blah blah, WHAT EVER, but the devil is in the details and every little perk counts on a trip over 4 or 5 days. While I was so excited to row this Lamborghini of all raft setups, I was nervous to wrap and/or sink my own stuff. It was a lot easier when someone else owned it, insured it and had plenty of other rafts in the warehouse. This is our baby. We sink it, we buy it. Again. Marek and I are both experienced oarsman. Having worked 8-10 seasons on different rivers, we don't underestimate the power of the river and use water dynamics to our advantage whenever possible. Anything can happen and the first few trips are always the trickiest because you are figuring out your oar set up, tying down your load and all the due diligence required to have a safe and enjoyable trip down the river. It's one thing to forget the tortillas. It's another to have to limp to take out with soaked gear, wrecked equipment and damaged egos.
On any given commercial trip, guides have different roles. There's the "AB" or assistant boatman who is probably rowing the river for his/her first few times and is not approved to row guests. This is the swamper or the person who usually rows the porta-potty and any other non-essentials that might get lost. There is a Head Guide or trip leader who is the first point of contact for guests and generally makes any big decisions on the trip. The Head Guide keeps the peace, settles disputes, decides where to camp and takes most of the credit if things go great. When things don't go so great, he/she is the first to get their hand slapped. Then there is the "Food Dude". The Food dude buys all of the food for the trip based on pre-determined quantities and packs all the dry goods and the coolers prior to the trip. The Food Dude then pulls all food items from boxes and coolers on the trip and is responsible for maintaining ice in coolers and drink gotts. It's a tough job in 100 degree heat and the Food Dude who has ice leftover is generally a stud.
Marek used to manage the operation for ECHO in Oregon and would try to get me to Head Guide because I was older and more anally retentive than the myriad of 18 year-olds who filtered through the doublewide and other ECHO guide houses. However, I hated being the Head Guide. I was terrible at diplomacy, my standards were impractically high, and I didn't smoke pot which made me extremely uptight and unpopular with my fellow guide friends. Nope. I am a seasoned Food Dude. I loved buying the food, packing the food and nailing the ice situation. I loved ice cream on the river. I loved an icy, cold, fizzy beverage at the end of a scorching hot day on the river and I thoroughly enjoyed the wonderment of guests over a rockin dutch oven. Plus, the stoners loved me when I threw in an extra bag of potato chips.
I am now the Food Dude for Robinson Inc. Rafting operations which is a whole different ball game when there are only four guests who barely eat. I have yet to balance a commercial, 5-course menu with 4 people who are willing to eat leftover chicken for 3 days. Needless to say, I always overbuy. We could invite 6 more people and not run out of food. Food makes the trip and cooking is a group activity. This last trip, the BLM announced "NO FIRES" which meant no firepans, firewood, fire-anything other than a gas-powered stove. That takes away just about every dutch oven dessert we have planned and makes barbecue chicken a serious challenge. However, all good food dudes have back up plans. S'Mores over the blaster (high-powered, gas flame) or strawberry shortcake go on all of my trips just in case....
I rowed days 2 and 3 on this trip. Day one is pretty stout with Rainie Falls to contend with. It's a tricky run at lower flows with only the mid-chute or the falls to run. On a one boat trip, both runs are sketchy because one of your guides is in the boat and the one outside has to be a really good swimmer. We try to run conservatively when we can as rescue options can be limited. Marek ran the mid-chute with Stella, an awesome rite of passage for her and a moment of pride to see my husband and my eldest daughter come careening down a chute only wide enough for a raft. 20 years ago, I made this run solo often. One time it went awry resulting in me breaking a solid ash oar around a thole pin. That made a very loud crack I will not forget, and the fact that I was not skewered in the process was a touch of good fortune. Yet here was my 13 year old sitting in the front of our raft, like a sitting duck, clueless to the forces that were about to act on her. Marek rowed splendidly of course but it was still a bumpy ride and a surprise drop in elevation while the raft tried to turn itself into a taco. I love the mid-chute run. It's technical, tricky and requires just enough finesse and a little luck to master a really good run. I envied Marek's success. On day 3 I would row Blossom Bar, a class 4 rapid with a crux move that if executed poorly, could result in dire consequences. However, I chose to row both days 2 and 3 so that I could work the bugs out on day 2 and prepare for day 3. It was a good strategy. By day 3, my confidence had returned, and Blossom Bar was almost "easy" although I overpowered my move, bounced off of the guard rock and ended up pushing for my life. Funny how experience kicks in after 20 years. If only my body were still 20-something.
All in all, we had an awesome trip. We ended up camping below Wildcat on river left on a sandy beach. It was a honeymoon spot for four. Day 2 we camped at Rogue River Ranch after being passed by 6 private trips who must have left the beach at 7am to compete for their ideal camping spot. We passed people setting up camp at noon. That's all fine and good, but we like to be on the river on our river trips. I think people just go down the river to camp and start drinking at 2. They're drunk by 6, hungover by 10 and passed out cold by midnight. My favorite time of day on the river is late afternoon when the sun is hottest and all I have to do is fall off the raft to keep cool. There's nothing like watching the sun set while you sit down for a nice warm dinner with friends and family. At the end of day 3, we were excited to be past all the big rapids and happy to have all of our equipment in one piece. As we made our way toward camp, we saw our first black bear who would later try to poach some treats from our cooler. We chased him off and he was so scared he jumped in the river and swam to the other side. However, a bigger, bolder bear hit us later on that night. He was a little stealthier and by the time we heard him picking away at our cooler, he had down just enough damage. Marek had a mexican stand-off with him 20 feet from his face. I'm pretty sure if the bear knew he outweighed Marek by about 250 lbs., the bear might used this to his advantage. Instead, he lumbered off to some other unsuspecting private trip with a much flimsier cooler. Smart bear. Our brand new Yeti is now marked by Rogue black bears. It's both a bummer and a badge of honor. Still perfectly functional and ready for another trip, our Yeti stands tall.
I am sorry to see summer end. I want just one more Rogue trip, one more opportunity to hone my rowing skills, one more revisit to my glory days as a river guide. It's such a magical wild place and yet feels like home. It might be time to run back to the river in the grand scheme of my life. Love and life are simpler there. I love not only the river, but who I am on the river. The river does not doubt me. It demands my best and pays little attention to my self-worth. It doesn't play games. It loves me unconditionally, ignores me on a daily basis, and loves others freely without fear of retribution. If my body holds up, I just might have my retirement plans all figured out.
This summer, Marek and I built our ideal down river craft, a 16' Sotar with a Down River 4-bay frame decked out with diamond plate rails, a trailer hatch, 3 composite oars with ash blades, a custom dry box to fit one of the frame bays and the Bugatti of all coolers, a Yeti 160. I'm sure you are thinking blah blah blah, WHAT EVER, but the devil is in the details and every little perk counts on a trip over 4 or 5 days. While I was so excited to row this Lamborghini of all raft setups, I was nervous to wrap and/or sink my own stuff. It was a lot easier when someone else owned it, insured it and had plenty of other rafts in the warehouse. This is our baby. We sink it, we buy it. Again. Marek and I are both experienced oarsman. Having worked 8-10 seasons on different rivers, we don't underestimate the power of the river and use water dynamics to our advantage whenever possible. Anything can happen and the first few trips are always the trickiest because you are figuring out your oar set up, tying down your load and all the due diligence required to have a safe and enjoyable trip down the river. It's one thing to forget the tortillas. It's another to have to limp to take out with soaked gear, wrecked equipment and damaged egos.
On any given commercial trip, guides have different roles. There's the "AB" or assistant boatman who is probably rowing the river for his/her first few times and is not approved to row guests. This is the swamper or the person who usually rows the porta-potty and any other non-essentials that might get lost. There is a Head Guide or trip leader who is the first point of contact for guests and generally makes any big decisions on the trip. The Head Guide keeps the peace, settles disputes, decides where to camp and takes most of the credit if things go great. When things don't go so great, he/she is the first to get their hand slapped. Then there is the "Food Dude". The Food dude buys all of the food for the trip based on pre-determined quantities and packs all the dry goods and the coolers prior to the trip. The Food Dude then pulls all food items from boxes and coolers on the trip and is responsible for maintaining ice in coolers and drink gotts. It's a tough job in 100 degree heat and the Food Dude who has ice leftover is generally a stud.
Marek used to manage the operation for ECHO in Oregon and would try to get me to Head Guide because I was older and more anally retentive than the myriad of 18 year-olds who filtered through the doublewide and other ECHO guide houses. However, I hated being the Head Guide. I was terrible at diplomacy, my standards were impractically high, and I didn't smoke pot which made me extremely uptight and unpopular with my fellow guide friends. Nope. I am a seasoned Food Dude. I loved buying the food, packing the food and nailing the ice situation. I loved ice cream on the river. I loved an icy, cold, fizzy beverage at the end of a scorching hot day on the river and I thoroughly enjoyed the wonderment of guests over a rockin dutch oven. Plus, the stoners loved me when I threw in an extra bag of potato chips.
I am now the Food Dude for Robinson Inc. Rafting operations which is a whole different ball game when there are only four guests who barely eat. I have yet to balance a commercial, 5-course menu with 4 people who are willing to eat leftover chicken for 3 days. Needless to say, I always overbuy. We could invite 6 more people and not run out of food. Food makes the trip and cooking is a group activity. This last trip, the BLM announced "NO FIRES" which meant no firepans, firewood, fire-anything other than a gas-powered stove. That takes away just about every dutch oven dessert we have planned and makes barbecue chicken a serious challenge. However, all good food dudes have back up plans. S'Mores over the blaster (high-powered, gas flame) or strawberry shortcake go on all of my trips just in case....
I rowed days 2 and 3 on this trip. Day one is pretty stout with Rainie Falls to contend with. It's a tricky run at lower flows with only the mid-chute or the falls to run. On a one boat trip, both runs are sketchy because one of your guides is in the boat and the one outside has to be a really good swimmer. We try to run conservatively when we can as rescue options can be limited. Marek ran the mid-chute with Stella, an awesome rite of passage for her and a moment of pride to see my husband and my eldest daughter come careening down a chute only wide enough for a raft. 20 years ago, I made this run solo often. One time it went awry resulting in me breaking a solid ash oar around a thole pin. That made a very loud crack I will not forget, and the fact that I was not skewered in the process was a touch of good fortune. Yet here was my 13 year old sitting in the front of our raft, like a sitting duck, clueless to the forces that were about to act on her. Marek rowed splendidly of course but it was still a bumpy ride and a surprise drop in elevation while the raft tried to turn itself into a taco. I love the mid-chute run. It's technical, tricky and requires just enough finesse and a little luck to master a really good run. I envied Marek's success. On day 3 I would row Blossom Bar, a class 4 rapid with a crux move that if executed poorly, could result in dire consequences. However, I chose to row both days 2 and 3 so that I could work the bugs out on day 2 and prepare for day 3. It was a good strategy. By day 3, my confidence had returned, and Blossom Bar was almost "easy" although I overpowered my move, bounced off of the guard rock and ended up pushing for my life. Funny how experience kicks in after 20 years. If only my body were still 20-something.
All in all, we had an awesome trip. We ended up camping below Wildcat on river left on a sandy beach. It was a honeymoon spot for four. Day 2 we camped at Rogue River Ranch after being passed by 6 private trips who must have left the beach at 7am to compete for their ideal camping spot. We passed people setting up camp at noon. That's all fine and good, but we like to be on the river on our river trips. I think people just go down the river to camp and start drinking at 2. They're drunk by 6, hungover by 10 and passed out cold by midnight. My favorite time of day on the river is late afternoon when the sun is hottest and all I have to do is fall off the raft to keep cool. There's nothing like watching the sun set while you sit down for a nice warm dinner with friends and family. At the end of day 3, we were excited to be past all the big rapids and happy to have all of our equipment in one piece. As we made our way toward camp, we saw our first black bear who would later try to poach some treats from our cooler. We chased him off and he was so scared he jumped in the river and swam to the other side. However, a bigger, bolder bear hit us later on that night. He was a little stealthier and by the time we heard him picking away at our cooler, he had down just enough damage. Marek had a mexican stand-off with him 20 feet from his face. I'm pretty sure if the bear knew he outweighed Marek by about 250 lbs., the bear might used this to his advantage. Instead, he lumbered off to some other unsuspecting private trip with a much flimsier cooler. Smart bear. Our brand new Yeti is now marked by Rogue black bears. It's both a bummer and a badge of honor. Still perfectly functional and ready for another trip, our Yeti stands tall.
I am sorry to see summer end. I want just one more Rogue trip, one more opportunity to hone my rowing skills, one more revisit to my glory days as a river guide. It's such a magical wild place and yet feels like home. It might be time to run back to the river in the grand scheme of my life. Love and life are simpler there. I love not only the river, but who I am on the river. The river does not doubt me. It demands my best and pays little attention to my self-worth. It doesn't play games. It loves me unconditionally, ignores me on a daily basis, and loves others freely without fear of retribution. If my body holds up, I just might have my retirement plans all figured out.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
Live it Up
Tonight, we are packing up to do our last trip of the summer. I will be naked for the next 4 days in the Oregon wilderness. Seriously. Miles from nowhere, I will be rowing down the river with nothing but my lifejacket. Looking forward to feeling liberated and alive. Why?
Today, we got another look at that little growth on my left ovary that caused me all kinds of drama last month and sent me into an emotional tizzy. That 5cm endometrioma has decreased in size to 3cm and the cyst on my right ovary is 2.1cm. Neither one of these fluid-filled masses has the size nor strength to take me down and once again, I am winning. I'm still not sure why my interior is at war with growing tissues. Its truly a war zone as my immune system finds crazy things to fight. I'm trying to give it all the help it needs by sleeping, drinking water, eating my vegetables and steering myself away from any unnecessary stressful events. This translates to being on vacation most of the summer of 2015. This will be our second river trip. I went to Park City twice, had my 30th High School reunion, visited San Diego and Las Vegas and spent a week on a houseboat on Lake Powell making new friends and learning about religion. Short answer: It's not bad. In fact, some really cool people and kids are religious. Who knew? You'd think I might have figured this out growing up in a state like Utah. As we all know, we choose to learn only when we want to.
This summer has been amazing in terms of my own personal growth. So many great times with my husband and kids. I reconnected with a whole slew of people I knew from high school and realized that maybe I'm not doing so badly in this life. I made some amazing new friends that I look forward to adding to my life adventures and harvested a myriad of ideas of what to put on my bucket list and what I want to be when I grow up. I am happy. My life is worth living. I realized on the houseboat trip that one of the driving forces behind my reaching out and going on crazy adventures is that I want everyone I love to be proud of the person I have become. It stems from the fact that each person has made a contribution to the person I am. I'm sort of like a mutual fund of experiences. I want to be worthy of those gifts. I want to earn all the goodness that has been given to me and my family and I want to share whatever good comes of my life with anyone who's strong enough to stand it. Chalk it up to some serious Daddy issues or Survivorship but I want to express my gratitude by being happy and sharing it.
So, what better way to show that off then to rid myself of my clothes, and any other fetterments and sink myself into a river canyon. This is the place where I feel most alive. It will be the perfect end to the perfect summer and the jumping off point for the rest of my life. I am glad I don't have cancer today, that the growth on my ovary is decreasing in size and I have one more year before I get my five-year chip. More love to come.
Today, we got another look at that little growth on my left ovary that caused me all kinds of drama last month and sent me into an emotional tizzy. That 5cm endometrioma has decreased in size to 3cm and the cyst on my right ovary is 2.1cm. Neither one of these fluid-filled masses has the size nor strength to take me down and once again, I am winning. I'm still not sure why my interior is at war with growing tissues. Its truly a war zone as my immune system finds crazy things to fight. I'm trying to give it all the help it needs by sleeping, drinking water, eating my vegetables and steering myself away from any unnecessary stressful events. This translates to being on vacation most of the summer of 2015. This will be our second river trip. I went to Park City twice, had my 30th High School reunion, visited San Diego and Las Vegas and spent a week on a houseboat on Lake Powell making new friends and learning about religion. Short answer: It's not bad. In fact, some really cool people and kids are religious. Who knew? You'd think I might have figured this out growing up in a state like Utah. As we all know, we choose to learn only when we want to.
This summer has been amazing in terms of my own personal growth. So many great times with my husband and kids. I reconnected with a whole slew of people I knew from high school and realized that maybe I'm not doing so badly in this life. I made some amazing new friends that I look forward to adding to my life adventures and harvested a myriad of ideas of what to put on my bucket list and what I want to be when I grow up. I am happy. My life is worth living. I realized on the houseboat trip that one of the driving forces behind my reaching out and going on crazy adventures is that I want everyone I love to be proud of the person I have become. It stems from the fact that each person has made a contribution to the person I am. I'm sort of like a mutual fund of experiences. I want to be worthy of those gifts. I want to earn all the goodness that has been given to me and my family and I want to share whatever good comes of my life with anyone who's strong enough to stand it. Chalk it up to some serious Daddy issues or Survivorship but I want to express my gratitude by being happy and sharing it.
So, what better way to show that off then to rid myself of my clothes, and any other fetterments and sink myself into a river canyon. This is the place where I feel most alive. It will be the perfect end to the perfect summer and the jumping off point for the rest of my life. I am glad I don't have cancer today, that the growth on my ovary is decreasing in size and I have one more year before I get my five-year chip. More love to come.
Thursday, August 27, 2015
In Repair
A few weeks ago, I had a bit of a scare. I thought Cancer had returned, I was stage IV and life was taking another proverbial right hand turn. Before I elaborate, I need to take a little sidetrip. I've got so much psychology swirling around in my head right now, it's making my head spin. Freud would have a field day. Freud would inevitably be wrong though. It's not my mother who handed down all this angst. It was Dad. My most recent struggle with my self worth stems from more than a handful of Daddy issues and a couple of innocent bystanders who happened to be in the right place at the right time at a particular "sensitive period" during my adolescence. It could have gone badly. I could be in Shanghai, China, doped out on who knows what, participating in a human trafficking nightmare. Instead, I'm safe in my bed in a house I built from the ground up with a man who treats me like the princess wretched Disney designed me to be. I am blessed with two gorgeous daughters who came out of nowhere. No really. Nowhere. Whaaa?
Ever look back at your life and wonder how in heck you got HERE? I'm still bitter at the machine for building the princess construct that for a short time led me to believe that happiness was a man on a white horse whose kiss would make my existence worthwhile. Ugh. I tried this on for size once upon a time and the shoe did not fit. Instead I had to choose between owning my life and a clueless prince who bought the same song and dance that I did. I chose to own my life and live a crazy path not found in storybooks until Disney finally figured out that strong female leads build strong female citizens. We still can't manage to shake the cute, dumb, male counterpart (Hans? Kristoff? Pet Reindeer? Really?), but at least the conflict is now between siblings. I'd much rather my daughters identify with Elsa and her sister Anna than Jasmine <sigh>. Sound bites such as "The cold never bothered me anyway" exemplify a chick on her own path.
Fortunately, I've adopted a handful of brothers along the way who have hand-picked the wreckage out of the burning ashes that Dad threw me into. Somehow the right adopted sibling bubbled up at just the right moment. I'm still trying to rationalize this past summer's journey through a series of emotional ups and downs. Just as time heals all wounds, time and space provide perspective. Since my last checkup, a lot of personal stuff has gone down ending with an unbelievable trip to Southern Utah to connect with one of my brothers and his very amazing family. It was just what the doctor ordered. It allowed me to forget that I have a 5cm mass on my ovary and a bunch of cysts in my liver. Previous testing shows none of this to be cancerous, so the right hand turn previously mentioned was not a right hand turn at all but rather a speed bump. Instead, I chose to take a psychological right hand turn and in the process opened myself up to some pretty awesome events. I made some new friends. I said goodbye to some old ones and flushed them from the current. Conveniently, it only took me a few weeks, and I am prepared for tomorrow.
Tomorrow, I go back to the doctor to get the final word on what's going on in my abdomen. Whatever the news, I feel surrounded by the love of my family and friends and have weeded out the drama and angst gifted to me by Dad and Disney. I am ready for this next chapter. Having spent an amazing summer galavanting around the countryside and connecting with friends new and old, I am empowered by faith and friendship. To see my girls interact and coexist with new members of our tribe is a remarkable experience. Whatever tomorrow's news brings, I'm in the best possible mindset to receive it.
Ever look back at your life and wonder how in heck you got HERE? I'm still bitter at the machine for building the princess construct that for a short time led me to believe that happiness was a man on a white horse whose kiss would make my existence worthwhile. Ugh. I tried this on for size once upon a time and the shoe did not fit. Instead I had to choose between owning my life and a clueless prince who bought the same song and dance that I did. I chose to own my life and live a crazy path not found in storybooks until Disney finally figured out that strong female leads build strong female citizens. We still can't manage to shake the cute, dumb, male counterpart (Hans? Kristoff? Pet Reindeer? Really?), but at least the conflict is now between siblings. I'd much rather my daughters identify with Elsa and her sister Anna than Jasmine <sigh>. Sound bites such as "The cold never bothered me anyway" exemplify a chick on her own path.
Fortunately, I've adopted a handful of brothers along the way who have hand-picked the wreckage out of the burning ashes that Dad threw me into. Somehow the right adopted sibling bubbled up at just the right moment. I'm still trying to rationalize this past summer's journey through a series of emotional ups and downs. Just as time heals all wounds, time and space provide perspective. Since my last checkup, a lot of personal stuff has gone down ending with an unbelievable trip to Southern Utah to connect with one of my brothers and his very amazing family. It was just what the doctor ordered. It allowed me to forget that I have a 5cm mass on my ovary and a bunch of cysts in my liver. Previous testing shows none of this to be cancerous, so the right hand turn previously mentioned was not a right hand turn at all but rather a speed bump. Instead, I chose to take a psychological right hand turn and in the process opened myself up to some pretty awesome events. I made some new friends. I said goodbye to some old ones and flushed them from the current. Conveniently, it only took me a few weeks, and I am prepared for tomorrow.
Tomorrow, I go back to the doctor to get the final word on what's going on in my abdomen. Whatever the news, I feel surrounded by the love of my family and friends and have weeded out the drama and angst gifted to me by Dad and Disney. I am ready for this next chapter. Having spent an amazing summer galavanting around the countryside and connecting with friends new and old, I am empowered by faith and friendship. To see my girls interact and coexist with new members of our tribe is a remarkable experience. Whatever tomorrow's news brings, I'm in the best possible mindset to receive it.
Monday, August 17, 2015
Time of Our Lives
"Time heals all wounds."
I found this to be true and it truly does work as long as you have the time. In my case, probably because my memory gets worse and I have less energy to focus on those wounds, so they just close all on their own and then I forget I had an issue in the first place. I'm fairly confident that this will be the case with a recent situation. However, I'm afraid I won't have enough time to see this through. I opened an old wound and the experience allowed me the good fortune to watch something amazing grow out of it. My intention was to cleanse my soul so that when I do run out of time, I don't have any demons to wrestle. My objectives were met. My expectations exceeded. Mission accomplished. Sadly, It created a new wound, a wound based on hope. Hope that now that the issue is "fixed," something new can grow from it and the efforts made to recognize how, would not be wasted. Hope that love and happiness will somehow find their way and the world, specifically my world, will be a better place.
Hope is a powerful drug.
In the law of 3's of the United States Air Force, hope can be the difference between life or death. A human being cannot survive:
I found this to be true and it truly does work as long as you have the time. In my case, probably because my memory gets worse and I have less energy to focus on those wounds, so they just close all on their own and then I forget I had an issue in the first place. I'm fairly confident that this will be the case with a recent situation. However, I'm afraid I won't have enough time to see this through. I opened an old wound and the experience allowed me the good fortune to watch something amazing grow out of it. My intention was to cleanse my soul so that when I do run out of time, I don't have any demons to wrestle. My objectives were met. My expectations exceeded. Mission accomplished. Sadly, It created a new wound, a wound based on hope. Hope that now that the issue is "fixed," something new can grow from it and the efforts made to recognize how, would not be wasted. Hope that love and happiness will somehow find their way and the world, specifically my world, will be a better place.
Hope is a powerful drug.
In the law of 3's of the United States Air Force, hope can be the difference between life or death. A human being cannot survive:
- 3 seconds without spirit or hope.
- 3 minutes without air/oxygen
- 3 hours without shelter in extreme conditions
- 3 days without water
- 3 weeks without food
- 3 months without companionship or love.
Not everyone is equipped to handle the intensity of raw emotion. People shy away from it as consciously as they shy away from pain. I've had a whole lot of experience with fear and pain and loss, so I'm not so averse to it. In fact, I tend to invite it because the richness and beauty that evolves from it, is so fulfilling. I struggle to understand why anyone isn't willing to go through a little discomfort to get to the good stuff. And I understand that some people are willing, but they fear those close to them cannot survive the journey. People opt out. Better to avoid discomfort than find solutions to the problems that arise. Few take chances on unknown risks.
You have to allow people to experience moments of pain and grief and loss so that they may move through to the other side. You must trust them and know in your heart that they will evolve all on their own because it is out of this faith in them that they grow. Good friends are the ones that see you jumping off of the cliff, and let you jump anyway because they know that if doesn't kill you, you'll be better for it. True friends help pick up the pieces. To be a good friend, sometimes you have to watch your friends go through hell. This can be rough but if you have just a little faith, a little trust, and a little patience, you can watch their life change before your very eyes.
You have to allow people to experience moments of pain and grief and loss so that they may move through to the other side. You must trust them and know in your heart that they will evolve all on their own because it is out of this faith in them that they grow. Good friends are the ones that see you jumping off of the cliff, and let you jump anyway because they know that if doesn't kill you, you'll be better for it. True friends help pick up the pieces. To be a good friend, sometimes you have to watch your friends go through hell. This can be rough but if you have just a little faith, a little trust, and a little patience, you can watch their life change before your very eyes.
I jumped off of the cliff and yes, I'm a little battered from the experience. I'm also enriched by the feeling of "freefall," so I continue to hope for a new way to experience it without all the battering and bleeding at the bottom, but there is an element of healing time that must be respected. Is it a year? 5 years? 30?
I don't have that kind of time. Maybe, I have five years left. Hopefully seven or more so that I may see my children make it to adulthood. Given my survival rates, I'm already way ahead of the game and grateful for all my moments, but I'm not complacent. I have no delusions that anything can happen, that it CAN and will happen to me, and that my life can end at any given moment.
Thankfully, I have plenty of oxygen, water, food and companionship and love, and truthfully, I only have to endure short bouts of hopelessness and a deep sadness from time to time. At this point, it is I who must have faith and trust that the universe is unfolding as it should. I must allow friends to evolve and grow and find joy. I see this as a test of my survivorship. It is a test of my faith. Faith that I will have enough time to see good things happen.
I can muster 3 seconds of faith. I will have faith for the rest of my days that good things will prevail. If I can get the bleeding to stop, I know time will heal all wounds. I am not worried. As we say in the ER, "All bleeding stops eventually."
Saturday, August 15, 2015
Turn Down for What
"This thing all things devours; Birds beasts, trees, flowers; Gnaws iron, bites steel; Grinds hard stones to meal; Slays king, ruins town, and beats high mountain down."
Slays king. Having been active and healthy most of my life....well, except for the cancer and a few orthopedic mishaps, I've aged fairly well. I've got some healthy laugh lines and a few sun spots. I'm not particularly psyched about the jowls I've got going due to the unrelenting pull of gravity. Nor am I happy about the lack of energy due to low numbers of mitochondria. Still, I'm doing better than most. I attend corporate functions with my husband from time to time and meet people in their thirties that look older than half my friends from High School. The beatdown of time takes its toll but there's another offender that takes even more of a toll than time.
Discontent.
I see it in my friends faces. They've given in and given up. They've stopped wanting, stopped dreaming, and stopped planning their next adventure. They refuse to adapt. It is in this era of our late 40's, early 50's that we see changes. People move, change jobs, buy 2-seaters or see drastic changes in their relationships. It's the mid-life crisis. It's that time when we ask ourselves if we have arrived at the place we've been striving for through our 20's and 30's. We look at the rest of our lives under a microscope and visit our bucket list. Are we satisfied with what we've created for ourselves? Have we learned all we've set out to learn? Are we ready to go gently into that good night?
I, for one, am not. I still have to learn an instrument, explore my artistic side, and earn enough money to buy my mid-life crisis-mobile: a black Lamborghini. Or at least drive one. My bucket list is a little short, largely because I've been checking things off throughout my life. Most of the things on my list were travel items. South America, Southeast Asia, Australia, Europe, and Central America. Check. There were accomplishments such as college degrees, certifications, and savings accounts. Relationship goals of marriage and kids and a 20th wedding anniversary. I've had the good fortune to marry a couple of close friends which, while not on my bucket list, was a gift of experience. We put in a pool. This is more of my grandmother's dream but because she never got it, I decided I would make it my own. We've built a house from the ground up. Learned a language. Swam with dolphins. Rode Camels.
Most of what is left involves watching my kids grow. Graduations, grandkids and maybe a 50th wedding anniversary for my husband and I. May I be so lucky. I don't feel quite so desperate to squeeze it all in because since cancer knocked on my door, I've had a healthier respect for the here and now. I have no patience for discontent in my life. Discontent, fear, guilt, shame.....all wasted emotions that I have no tolerance for. A waste of spirit.
As we age, we deteriorate. We are asked to give up certain things. Recently, I've had to give up playing soccer and running because my knees and hips are so damaged from overuse (better to use 'em up than let 'em rust), they can't tolerate the impact and I can't tolerate the pain. However, rather than propping myself in front of the television, I've switched to my bicycle, walking up hill, and finding other ways to get that workout that feeds my soul. Not sure what I'm going to do when I lose that capability. I've been paying a lot more attention to adults in their 60's and 70's looking for the cliff notes on what's to come. I see a lot of these people having a blast traveling, chasing grandkids, retiring and ticking off bucket list items. "A body in motion stays in motion until another force acts upon it." (Newton's First Law) There's a light at the end of the tunnel. We just don't see it as our eyesight starts to fail.
I'm more compassionate and patient with those falling short of expectations because I assume that mid-life is making a contribution, specifically in the case of women going through menopause. I am already finished with menopause. It was not easy and took a lot less time than it takes regular women. Chemo throws you into it and the cancer meds you continue to take for ten years have side effects. I had my own struggles. For a few years I was sad that I no longer had those awesome hormones that drive a healthy sex life. I woke up in puddles of sweat at night. My joints hurt, and my body did not feel like my own. I had a lot of struggles because I wasn't sure if this was a permanent condition or not. That drove a fear that as I lose more and more of my capabilities, I will be far less able to carry out those things on my bucket list like skydiving, hang gliding or a flying suit. Now that I am through it, I feel like I have a second chance, a new lease on life which is exacerbated by beating cancer. The return of my sex drive has made a drastic impact on my mood although I'm still trying to figure out how it actually works. Perhaps another post. Now, many of my friends are starting the menopausal process and I can see the angst, fear and discontent that I once felt. It affects how we interact with one another especially since it wreaks havoc on emotions. It's hard for me to watch friends or their spouses go through it. If you oversimplify it, people just get mad at you.
"Relax, it's menopause."
"NO IT'S NOT! MY LIFE IS HELL!"
"Right. My bad." (w*h*a*t*e*v*e*r. See you in five years)
In this case, slays Queen, which in turn slays King. Time beats us all down and requires adaptations. Choose not to adapt and ye shall be slain.
Slays king. Having been active and healthy most of my life....well, except for the cancer and a few orthopedic mishaps, I've aged fairly well. I've got some healthy laugh lines and a few sun spots. I'm not particularly psyched about the jowls I've got going due to the unrelenting pull of gravity. Nor am I happy about the lack of energy due to low numbers of mitochondria. Still, I'm doing better than most. I attend corporate functions with my husband from time to time and meet people in their thirties that look older than half my friends from High School. The beatdown of time takes its toll but there's another offender that takes even more of a toll than time.
Discontent.
I see it in my friends faces. They've given in and given up. They've stopped wanting, stopped dreaming, and stopped planning their next adventure. They refuse to adapt. It is in this era of our late 40's, early 50's that we see changes. People move, change jobs, buy 2-seaters or see drastic changes in their relationships. It's the mid-life crisis. It's that time when we ask ourselves if we have arrived at the place we've been striving for through our 20's and 30's. We look at the rest of our lives under a microscope and visit our bucket list. Are we satisfied with what we've created for ourselves? Have we learned all we've set out to learn? Are we ready to go gently into that good night?
I, for one, am not. I still have to learn an instrument, explore my artistic side, and earn enough money to buy my mid-life crisis-mobile: a black Lamborghini. Or at least drive one. My bucket list is a little short, largely because I've been checking things off throughout my life. Most of the things on my list were travel items. South America, Southeast Asia, Australia, Europe, and Central America. Check. There were accomplishments such as college degrees, certifications, and savings accounts. Relationship goals of marriage and kids and a 20th wedding anniversary. I've had the good fortune to marry a couple of close friends which, while not on my bucket list, was a gift of experience. We put in a pool. This is more of my grandmother's dream but because she never got it, I decided I would make it my own. We've built a house from the ground up. Learned a language. Swam with dolphins. Rode Camels.
Most of what is left involves watching my kids grow. Graduations, grandkids and maybe a 50th wedding anniversary for my husband and I. May I be so lucky. I don't feel quite so desperate to squeeze it all in because since cancer knocked on my door, I've had a healthier respect for the here and now. I have no patience for discontent in my life. Discontent, fear, guilt, shame.....all wasted emotions that I have no tolerance for. A waste of spirit.
As we age, we deteriorate. We are asked to give up certain things. Recently, I've had to give up playing soccer and running because my knees and hips are so damaged from overuse (better to use 'em up than let 'em rust), they can't tolerate the impact and I can't tolerate the pain. However, rather than propping myself in front of the television, I've switched to my bicycle, walking up hill, and finding other ways to get that workout that feeds my soul. Not sure what I'm going to do when I lose that capability. I've been paying a lot more attention to adults in their 60's and 70's looking for the cliff notes on what's to come. I see a lot of these people having a blast traveling, chasing grandkids, retiring and ticking off bucket list items. "A body in motion stays in motion until another force acts upon it." (Newton's First Law) There's a light at the end of the tunnel. We just don't see it as our eyesight starts to fail.
I'm more compassionate and patient with those falling short of expectations because I assume that mid-life is making a contribution, specifically in the case of women going through menopause. I am already finished with menopause. It was not easy and took a lot less time than it takes regular women. Chemo throws you into it and the cancer meds you continue to take for ten years have side effects. I had my own struggles. For a few years I was sad that I no longer had those awesome hormones that drive a healthy sex life. I woke up in puddles of sweat at night. My joints hurt, and my body did not feel like my own. I had a lot of struggles because I wasn't sure if this was a permanent condition or not. That drove a fear that as I lose more and more of my capabilities, I will be far less able to carry out those things on my bucket list like skydiving, hang gliding or a flying suit. Now that I am through it, I feel like I have a second chance, a new lease on life which is exacerbated by beating cancer. The return of my sex drive has made a drastic impact on my mood although I'm still trying to figure out how it actually works. Perhaps another post. Now, many of my friends are starting the menopausal process and I can see the angst, fear and discontent that I once felt. It affects how we interact with one another especially since it wreaks havoc on emotions. It's hard for me to watch friends or their spouses go through it. If you oversimplify it, people just get mad at you.
"Relax, it's menopause."
"NO IT'S NOT! MY LIFE IS HELL!"
"Right. My bad." (w*h*a*t*e*v*e*r. See you in five years)
In this case, slays Queen, which in turn slays King. Time beats us all down and requires adaptations. Choose not to adapt and ye shall be slain.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)