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.
Monday, September 21, 2015
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.
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