Eulogy for a Cat

Almost exactly two years ago I penned a blog titled "Ode to a Cat," consisting of a poem inspired by a week of cat-sitting our friends' cat, Athena. I had the opportunity to spend a lot of time with Athena, due to the fact that I was spending most of my days two years ago recovering from chemotherapy. Athena and I had a lot of time to bond. That made for a very sad day Saturday when we learned that Athena had to be put down due to the failure of her kidneys. Now I know that there are some who might find it strange or even inappropriate to eulogize a cat; likely those people have never had a pet who they regarded as part of their family. A systematic theology professor of mine and a professed animal lover once told our class that she believed that our beloved pets go to heaven. She cited our belief that God's plan for redemption included ALL of his creation, and she saw no reason why that didn't also include the animals that fill our lives with joy.

Athena was adopted when she was a year old from a shelter. By all accounts, Gabriel and Shannon were looking to adopt an animal that would fit well into their busy lifestyle, and a cat seemed like a perfect option. As I thought more about the time I spent with Athena, I realized that she was a cat who did things on her own terms. You cat lovers out there are probably thinking, "What cat doesn't do things on her own terms?" For example, Athena loved attention and affection, but she hated being held. Whenever we would come home during the week we kept her, she would yowl at us with a meow louder than you would think that small of a body could produce. I always imagined that she was yelling, "Where have you been all day!?!? Why haven't you been here paying attention to me?" She was never quiet about her discontent.
She loved to play, but only when she wanted to, and then she was fickle about the toys. She loved one toy, for a couple of days or weeks, and then would ignore it. She hated her cat carrier and protested loudly when placed into it, once by pooping in it. I will never forget the cat rodeo I got to witness one time when Gabriel attempted to catch her to take her home after a trip. She was a ferocious guard cat. Anytime I would take Bailey over to Gabriel and Shannon's backyard to play, Athena would sit at a window or door shooting daggers at us (or more likely just Bailey) with her eyes. Probably most ironically, this small shelter cat who, all bets would have been, inexpensive to upkeep, turned out to be quite expensive. Because of her bad kidneys, she needed medicine and frequent vet trips, not to mention special food and treats. but arguably she was worth every penny. Most of all, Athena was a survivor; she lived much longer with poor kidneys' than anyone could imagine, and we were all surprised this last time when she wasn't able to battle through.

Athena brought love and laughter into the lives of Gabriel and Shannon, and indeed all the lives of those who took care of her or spent much time with her. The Torres' are expecting a baby girl in March, and I know that they will tell her stories as she grows up about their first cat together, Athena, and about all of her antics and eccentricities. Athena made the world a better because she existed, and because she allowed us to love her. I think that deserves the honor of a eulogy.

Put the Cancer Card Down

Yesterday evening, I received a phone call from an old friend whom I hadn't spoken with if months, if not years. She's one of those old friends with whom you have so much history that, even if you haven't spoken in a very long time, you always seem to pick up where you left off.
She told me about what was going on in her life, and I told her that I was working on a book. As I reluctantly described the premise of the book (which draws from my experience with cancer), she said off hand, "You know, you can't play the cancer card forever."

I know she meant it as a joke, but it kind of got me riled up.

Justin and I joked, along with some other friends, about how many cancer cards I got after I got sick. A cancer card, for those of you who might be unaware, is just a euphemism for how many times you get to use your illness as an excuse to get out of something or a reason why you should get something.* Justin and I agreed, tongue in cheek, that I got 3 cancer cards a month as long as I was going through treatment. I could use my cancer as an excuse not to go to a party or for buying a new shirt, or for why I was too tired to make dinner, etc...

Of course now I've been in remission for a year and a half, which is awesome, but my friend's statement illuminated something for me. I imagine that she looks at me and thinks, cancer was an event in my life and now it's over - so move on. Stop playing the cancer card; you don't have cancer anymore.

However, as other cancer survivors might agree, cancer was not an "event" in my life. Cancer changed my life, myself in an indelible way that can't be seen on the surface. I've grown back the hair I lost and lost a lot of the weight I gained while fighting cancer, and other than the odd scar here and there, it would be hard to look at me and see the effect cancer has had on my life. But cancer changed my life outlook, my career path, my expectations, my plans for having a family....it changed me. For better or worse, my life is undeniably changed. That doesn't mean that I play the cancer card anymore....I won't use cancer as an excuse in my life. I intend to try and live my life to the fullest and to use my experiences with cancer to make my life better. I'm writing a book. I've mentioned that already, but I'm writing a book about 6 women whose lives have been indelibly changed by cancer, cancer of their own or of a loved one. It's a book about their journey, how they learn to live their lives interrupted, and how they love and support one another through the ups and downs, life and death. When my friend heard I was writing a book about women surviving cancer, she didn't understand, because from the outside it looks like cancer was a bump in the road. She thinks that I should have a new story...a new tune. She's wrong, but I plan to show her and everyone else. I plan to finish this book, as a catharsis for myself and, hopefully, a help for others. I will take the lemons that I was given and make lemonade. And when I'm done, I'll probably offer my friend a drink. :)


*Although it didn't fit into the blog, I thought I would mention the most egregious of the cancer cards I ever played for your giggles.

A bunch of our friends were at the bowling alley, celebrating my two friends' birthdays. At the time, I was in the middle of my new round of chemo which had left me with a picc line (picture 2 foot long tubes hanging out of my right arm), a head absent of hair (not to mention a face as well), and the bloated, hairless, pale moon face. In other words, I looked ever bit the cancer patient. There were about twelve of us at the party, and we had purchased a couple of pitchers of beer and soda, but it was hot and some of us wanted water. Two of the girls in our group had gone up separately to the concession stand, trying to get a pitcher of water, but they were denied. The girl told them that it would cost $7 a pitcher...as much as a pitcher of soda or beer. Each came back and reported her failure, and after the second one came back I said, "Let me try. I'll get some water."

I trudged up to the cancer stand in all my bald, cancer-ey glory, and asked the girl in a sweet voice. "Could I possibly get a pitcher of water? I need to take my evening pills and I have to drink a lot of water with my condition."
I could see the lady behind the counter take in my physical condition, and then almost watch her weigh her pity against the rules which she was entrusted to enforce, the rules she had enforced with such gusto with my friends. Aware that she was deliberating when she said, "Well..." followed by a long pause, I gave her my best doe eyes and attempted to look as pathetic as possible.
".....alright," she said, pursing her lips, "but don't tell anyone I did this or I'll get in trouble."
I gave her my biggest, sweetest smile and thanked her. To make her feel better I laid it on thick. "Thanks for this," I said as she scooped ice into a pitcher and filled it with the water button on the soda hose, "I have to drink a lot because of all the drugs they give me to fight the cancer." She rewarded me with a kind smile.
"It's no problem," she said.

When I returned to my lane, my friends were suitably impressed and amused as I relayed the story. Justin, it should be noted, immediately removed not one, but two of that month's cancer cards. One because I used cancer to break the rules, and the second card because I told a wee white lie. I didn't really have to take any pills that evening. I know, I know....it was wrong. But I was on a lot of chemo at the time and my liver was probably happier with water over soda....definitely over beer.

And that's my most egregious use of a cancer card. Don't judge me. :)

A Rant

I generally try not to use my blog to preach or teach or rant to others about how they live their lives. My goal, generally, is to be introspective, and hopefully the things I discover about myself and the experiences I share can be of use to others, be that for personal edification or just for a laugh. I hope, then, that you my friends will indulge me in a little rant today. Today, I go off the rails.

When did we as a society decide to jettison personal responsibility out the window? We have become as a people so greedy, so entitled, and so very whiny in almost all aspects of our lives. Life is unflinchingly unfair. Actually, let me rephrase that. There is no guarantee in life of equality. There is no quota for how good or bad things will be. We don't all start out life with the same circumstances or the same opportunities. Some of us are born with silver spoons in our mouths, while others get one of those plastic spork things that don't really work so well as either a fork or a spoon.

Take me, as an example. I have lived to see and experience a whole lot of suffering, and I would venture to say I've seen more than the average 28 year old, although arguably much less than some. However, I don't think that my lot is particularly fair or unfair. It's just the way it is. It sucks. But I have the personal responsibility to make lemonade out of lemons. I don't have the right or the option to sit around and bemoan the things which have happened to me, but instead must pull myself up by the boot straps and get on with making the best sort of life of it that I can. My crappy lot in life does not grant me permission to take from others. It does not free me from suffering in the future. They are just the cards I was dealt.

Even more offensive to me are people who make choices which complicate their lives, and they feel as if they can whine and complain about the unfairness of life. I am responsible for the choices I make, be the personal, financial, or professional. If I buy something I can't afford, I'm responsible for figuring out a way to pay for it. If I date someone who's not the best person, I'm responsible for the drama that comes my way. If I don't work hard at my job, I shouldn't be surprised at the lack of success and promotion.

As they say, you make your bed, and then you have to lie in it.

Mediocre at Best

Doubtless, I've mentioned in this blog my struggles with self-discipline. Indeed, if I happened to be more disciplined, I could probably go through the blog archives and cite individual examples, but alas, I lack the discipline. My goals for self-improvement lately have completely been focused on self-discipline. Weight loss, writing, job searches....all these require one to be a self starter. Personally, I tend to be more successful when I have defined tasks and deadlines. Justin has tried to help me with setting up a calendar, but that got poo-pooed the first week when I wasn't disciplined enough to get up at 6:00 AM and get to the gym on time. In my defense, I couldn't get back on schedule this week because I sprained my ankle, but next week when I can walk....look out world. Have I mentioned that I am a terrible procrastinator too?

I am determined to overcome my shortcomings and accomplish something great. Or at least rise slightly above mediocrity. You should be proud of me; I'm off to a good start by following the schedule and warming up by writing my daily blog post. Although I am fearful that this entry will go down in history (or be totally forgotten) as being completely unremarkable, I am determined to submit it anyways. That's another one of my flaws...that if I don't think something I do is great, I lack the desire to do it at all. So this is growth, blogging something I don't love. Not to mention cheap therapy. I mean, people pay thousands of dollars and spend hours of their lives to achieve this kind of introspection.

It's not my best work, but some days, mediocre is better than nothing.

Shorn on the 4th of July

Memories of Independence Day always seem to blend together, probably because they are often filled with many of the same activities, foods, and people. One 4th of July, however, stands out starkly in my memory. July 4, 2000, was the midpoint of a hellacious summer. It had begun with a diagnosis of stage 4 breast cancer for my mother, and would be soon followed by a car accident which killed my grandmother and injured my grandfather. As I remember it, we were all still somewhat shell-shocked by the cancer diagnosis and were learning how to exist in a normal way day to day in a world which felt anything but normal. My memory is punctuated by certain events that summer. For example, I remember the afternoon that my family went and saw the movie Shanghai Noon which was out in the theaters that summer. It was the first time we had really laughed since the diagnosis, and it dawned on me that from now on I would live in a world where joy and grief and fear would coexist with one another from moment to moment.

Independence Day, 2000, dawned sunny and warm, as it almost always does in Texas. Marla and I awoke to the sounds of my father yelling for us to get up. He yelled, "Girls! Katie! Marla! Get up and come out here! Hurry up!" Both of us, knowing that once Dad decided he wanted us awake there would be no more sleep to be had, stumbled out of bed in our pjs and grumpily made our way out to the side porch whence he yelled. As we slowly made our way the office door swung open again and he yelled, laughing as he did, "Hurry! You have to see this!"

In my groggy state, my brain scrambled to figure out what he could possibly want us for. He had been known to occasionally find and bring home various and sundry creatures, including but not limited to tarantulas, turtles, and snakes. Maybe he had run into something with the lawnmower, although, I couldn't figure out why he would be so eager for us to see that. By he time my brain had run through all these things, Marla and I had arrived at the office door and walked outside.....and the screaming began.

Have you ever had one of those moments where you see something that is so wrong, so completely out of normal context and against everything that is right and good in the world that your brain goes into meltdown mode? This was one of those moments.

My mother had started chemotherapy a couple of weeks prior to that particular morning, and her hair was beginning to fall out so, apparently, my parents had decided that it would be best for dad to just go ahead and shave her head. So they got the clippers, went outside to the porch, and dad had fired up the shears. Having his own peculiar sense of humor, he had begun the haircut by shaving off all the hair on the top of her head, leaving the rest of the hair in tact which resulted in a look similar to that of Friar Tuck. It was one of the strangest things I'd ever seen, and we were both so disturbed, that we yelled, "Oh my God! That is so sick," and turned and went back into the house as they laughed.

It was another stark reminder about how life had changed so quickly and drastically, seeing my pretty mother looking so bizarre. It was only slightly less bizarre to see her completely bald, given how she had always had a full head of thick beautiful brown hair that was often the envy of others. But upon reflection, I realize that my parents gave us a gift that day. They gave us permission to laugh, permission to find the funny in the midst of the horrific. I have often heard people say, "If I didn't laugh, I would cry," and in that moment, they chose to laugh in the face of it all instead of being sad.

The rest of the day, as we went to pool parties and watched fireworks, people asked questions and rubbed my mom's head, as she good naturedly joked about it. I know now, from my own head shaving experiences, that it couldn't have been as easy as she made it seem, but she kept her head up anyways. I've seen some incredible fireworks on the 4th of July through the years, but that was the most amazing thing I ever saw on any 4th of July. And I'm pretty sure it always will be.

Thou Shall Not Covet Thy Neighbor's Ass

I remember being a child in Sunday School when we learned about the Ten Commandments because, being the type of person I am, as we went over them I immediately began to tally in my head how good/not good I was based on how I evaluated my own obedience to the commandments. It went sort of like this:
No Gods before me - Check
No Idols - Check
Don't take the Lord's name in vain - Check*
Remember the Sabbath - Check
Honor your mother and father - Check **
Do not murder - Check
Do not commit adultery - Check
Do not steal - Check
Do not bear false witness - Check***
Do not covet - (Uncomfortable silence...at least as soon as I learned what covet meant)

* Note - this was before I learned to swear like a sailor...still working on that
**Note - I gave myself a pass on this one at the time based on a "more often than not" judgment
***Note - I determined that I only rarely told lies against my sister and, really, if God knew how difficult she could be, He would give me a pass.

To this day, twenty years later, coveting still gives me the most trouble of all the commandments. Especially lately, it feels like I'm struggling a lot to keep myself from coveting what others have. I will try to resist the urge to defend myself to cyberspace; not justifying myself by protesting that I'm not coveting mansions, or a Porsche, or some kind of designer clothing. Mostly I find myself coveting things which most of my peers take for granted on a day to day basis. A house, health, a career, a child....the ability to wear size 4 jeans. (Ok, so this is where coveting thy neighbor's ass takes on a whole new 20th century connotation.)

The worst thing about coveting what someone else has is that it tends to make one bitter and impedes upon the ability to celebrate others good fortune and joy. For example, when a friend of mine has a baby, I don't want my first thought to be discontent about my own inability to have a child. I want to rejoice in the new life. I want to be glad when someone I care about gets a promotion or lovely place to live for their family. I don't want to be envious.

Envy seems to bring out the worst in people, at least it does in me. I morph into this narcissistic beast who dwells only on what she doesn't have. People are always searching for the secret to happiness, and although I don't have that secret, I am pretty sure that the secret to unhappiness is to indulge yourself in coveting the possessions of others. So what's there to do about it? For me it's a daily exercise of looking at what I DO have, which sometimes works and sometimes doesn't. For example, as I type these very words, I can't help but be very grateful for the furry companion who has slowly inched her way down the couch so that she can nap with her muzzle resting against my arm. To touch me gives her comfort, and I must admit that the feeling is mutual. I am thankful for that

Finally, I resolve instead of being enviousness, to go out and get the things I want....as least as much as I can. I will keep writing, keep dreaming, keep working out. And hopefully fit into my own skinny jeans one day.

A Dress, a Wink, and a Prayer

I made a classic girl error. Let me rephrase that. I made the classic girl error of anyone who has ever needed to lose some weight. You make an unreasonable goal. For example, you decide that you're going to lose 50lbs in 2 months, or that you'll get back to the size you were in high school for your 20 year reunion. You know, that sort of thing. Which brings us back to me. When I decided to try and lose weight, I set an unreasonable goal for myself. To fit into a bridesmaids dress for my sister's wedding (in June) which was two sizes smaller than what fit when I ordered it (February). Stupid. A word to the wise....don't ever do this. It's easy to have a dress taken in or wear a dress that's a little big for you. The other way around, i.e. having a dress that's too small, is bad. Very bad. I've done this not just once, but twice. I bought a slightly smaller size than what fit for my friend Maryann's wedding and I just barely squeezed in it, and I swore I would never do it again. Even I don't listen to myself.

If I was going to be completely honest I would confess that I actually originally bought a dress that was 3 sizes smaller than what fit in February. Not just stupid. Really stupid.
Ultimately, when the dress came in in April, I took one look at it and knew that there was no way I was going to make it into that dress by June. A fitting confirmed my worst fears. My husband calmed my hyperventilating panic by telling me to order a bigger dress, and so I did. We back to the dress that was 2 sizes smaller. Now, this dress zipped, but just barely, right before I began a whirlwind of traveling before the wedding. This was a little disconcerting because we all know that it is nearly impossible to stay on and diet and exercise plan when you're traveling about to an fro. But I thought, surely if I just maintain or lose a little more, everything will be fine.

In the month before the wedding, I flew to Dallas for a bridal shower, back to California for another wedding, and the back to Dallas to get ready for the wedding. By the time that it came to the week of the wedding, I had managed to lose a couple more pounds which made me feel secure in the fact that it would fit. Until I tried it on....and the zipper opened from the bottom. I got the zipper back down, but I failed to realize that there was a flaw in the zipper and that it was never going be able to bear the pressure of a snug dress. Mistake. Then, on Friday night, the night before the Saturday of the wedding, I tried on the dress and the zipper refused to stay zipped. When Justin tried to move zip it down, the zipper ripped off one side. At that point, I began to gag and hyperventilate at the same time, which is not a good combination. At this point, things got wild. I was panicking, Dad was incredulous, and Justin was coming up with hair-brained plots to fix the dress. The plans ranged from sewing hooks and eyes up the zipper line, sewing me in it, duct tape, and safety pins. None of these things engendered much confidence.

Then, Dad called our family friend, Sherry, and after a short conversation it was decided that we should head down to Waxahachie and let her see what she could do. So at 10PM, Dad and I got in the car and headed down there. When we arrived, Sherry was there along with her next door neighbor who just happened to be, miracle upon miracles, a seamstress. (Cue angels singing from Heaven) I turned over the offending garment and they set to work. After about 30-45 minutes of fiddling with the zipper, they determined that they were not going to be able to fix it. It was decided that Dad and I would drive to Walmart (Thank God for 24 hour Walmarts!) and buy another zipper whilst Sherry and her neighbor ripped out the old one. Dad and I did what we were told and we bought a normal zipper as well as a heavy duty metal zipper, like the ones you find in ski jackets and such. When we returned, the ladies decided to put the industrial zipper in the dress, and the time was nearing midnight. We headed over to the neighbor's house and she spent the next hour replacing the zipper. When she was done, it was time for me to try on the dress again. Problematically, as the new zipper was put in , it appeared to take up and extra 1/4 - 1/2" of fabric. Fabric that I didn't have to lose in an already snug dress. It took two people holding the dress closed and a third person to zip it up. It was bad. I couldn't breathe. I could barely move. It was really bad. I could tell by assessing the looks the others were exchanging that they knew it was bad too.

We decided that I should probably have a plan B.

The next morning I told Marla what had happened the night before, mostly to explain why Dad was so late in getting up. She did not take the news terribly well. It was decided that I would just try and make it through the ceremony in the dress, and have another dress to change into for the reception. During pictures before the ceremony, I would simply safety pin the dress so as not to test the zipper. As I showered that morning and put on my underwear, I thought to myself, "Is this the underwear I want to be wearing before God and the Arboretum if this dress explodes off of me?"

As it turns out, the miraculous took place. After the pictures were taken, Justin zipped me up in the dress by himself, and the darn thing didn't explode. Not during the ceremony or the reception or lunch or cutting a rug. I remember at one point when I was cutting a rug with my cousins and I caught a vision of Sherry on the edge of the dance floor shaking her head in what I can only imagine was shock/awe at the miracle that the dress was still in one piece.

Most importantly, Marla was beautiful, they got married, and the wedding was lovely. That's all that matters. But I'll never forget what was most certainly the most amazing miracle at a wedding that has occurred since Jesus himself turned water into wine in Cana.

Finding a Way to Move On

I remember when I was a teenager, young, naive, and idealistic, and totally unaware that I was any of those things. The world was my oyster, full of possibilities and hope for what would be and what could be. But now, as I round the bend toward the home stretch of my 20's, I find myself in some ways disillusioned about where my life is. The highlight of my adult life would have to be meeting and marrying my husband. There do not exist enough adjectives to fully describe how wonderful he is, how amazing just having him around is, and so I won't do myself the disservice of even trying. I am incredibly fortunate that he has taken care of me...through grad school, cancer, and now....whatever phase you call this. Maybe, picking up the pieces? Taking stock of my losses? Determining what next? His patience and understanding for me, almost inhuman really, overwhelms me if I think too deeply on it.

A year and a half into remission, I find myself both eternally grateful and shamefully bitter. I am so glad to be alive, but the devastation that cancer has wrought in my life sometimes doubles me over. My mother is gone, and now, it seems very possibly, the chance that I might some day be a mother, or at least naturally. The pain of that fact stabs and aches, moving over me in waves that rise and ebb but never fully subside. Just another one of those things that you never fully understand until you experience it. I know people say, you can have a family in other ways, and I resist the urge to lash out at them. Especially when the person proffering the kindly meant advice has their own biological 2.5 children.

I suppose I am grieving right now what might not be. Of course, then I have people who are prodding me, not so gently, to submit my PIF (a resume that gets you jobs in the Presbyterian church), and I just don't know how to explain to them that I am working stuff out with God right now, and I don't exactly feel authentic seeking a position being a pastor to others when there are so many answers I am seeking myself.

So, I am writing. I'm sure no one checks this blog anymore, so it just shoots out silently into cyberspace, and I'm ok with that. Mostly, I've decided to blog now as a daily exercise; a warm-up before I start my writing on my book. So if you are reading, hopefully I'll perk up a here in a few days. Tomorrow I plan to blog about Marla's wedding. It's way funnier than today....promise.

One

It starts with just one cell. In every human body, there are trillions and trillions of cells, but it only takes one. One cell that for some unknown reason mutates and goes rogue. Maybe the reason is genetic, or maybe environmental. Maybe it's completely random, but regardless this cell mutates and begins to reproduce itself rapidly. Depending on the specific mutation, it can take weeks, months, or even years, for that one cell to become millions of cells. In the beginning, it goes unnoticed and in general causes no symptoms, but eventually as the millions of cell continue to rapidly multiply, eventually another cell mutates again, and begins to multiply in a completely different place in a completely different organ. Eventually, the body begins to react to these Benedict Arnold cells, which have effectively begun a war against itself. For different mutations, there are different symptoms, ranging from pain to fatigue, to physical lump, and eventually is detected.

It is cancer.

When the doctor utters those words in your presence, it's liked being socked in the gut. Your ears buzz as the doctor starts talking about treatment and prognosis, but inside you're still coming to terms with that word. Cancer. How did this happen? Why? Am I going to die. Your mind is flooded with questions, some of which perhaps the doctor is answering but you don't notice. It's hard not to feel as if your own body has betrayed you, because it has.

It is fortunate that I have been able to survive all the rounds a harsh chemotherapy that it takes if you are going to wage war against those rogue cells that, left unchecked, will eventually kill you. I survived. My mother didn't. My friend Donna didn't. Thousands of others won't this year. But as a survivor, I am left with guilt. With distrust. Will the body that betrayed me once betray me again? Have we won the war, or merely the battle? I choose to believe the latter, but deep down I can't help but remember....It starts with just one cell.

Puppy Love

Ever since Justin and I moved out to California, we felt like our lives were missing something. We are, unequivocally, dog people, and we pined for a pooch, but we didn't live in a place where we could have a dog. Then, out of the blue, our landlord decided to change his "no pets" policy, and allow us to get a dog. We were ecstatic! From the beginning, we knew that we wanted to adopt a dog, so we began to search on the internet and at adoption events for our perfect pup. I had a general idea of what we were looking for. We agreed that we wanted a girl dog because, I'm sorry, but boy dogs are gross. They're always humping things and marking things.....no, I wanted a girl. Also, due to the space restrictions of living in a condo, we also decided that a small dog would be more appropriate, even though Justin was more naturally drawn to big dogs. Finally, we decided that we should adopt an older, adult dog, so that we didn't have to go through all the rigmarole or house training a puppy. And so, we searched. After a week or two, we found a little dog that seemed to meet our criteria, or at least most of them. He, that was the first criteria he didn't meet, was a small daschund/beagle mix, and he was an adult. His name was Buster, and we put in an application to adopt him, but we were rejected. They wanted him to go to a home that had other dogs. Dejected, we went home empty-handed.

Then, one day a couple of weeks later, we went to Petsmart to check out the dogs that were up for adoption, and made a pass by the different crates and enclosures, but saw nothing that particularly seemed to be the right dog for us. Except.....there was a small pen containing two black and white puppies. Of course, we didn't want a puppy, but....they sure were cute. Justin walked over to the pen, and the little white one, who had two black eyes, jumped up and began gnawing on part of the pen. Justin said to me, "What about these two?" We looked at them, and they were very cute, but they were puppies. And they were a cross between an English Bulldog and a Standard Poodle. I reminded him that we weren't going to get a puppy, and this 6 month old puppy was already 27 lbs. On the info sheet, it said that she was a boy, but a quick inspection informed us that they were incorrect. It was a girl.

To make a long story short, Justin picked up this puppy, she snarfled his face, and we applied to adopt her. The adoption people called her Oakley, because she looked like she was wearing sunglasses, but we renamed her Bailey. Bailey the Boodle, half bulldog, half poodle, only fit one or our criteria. I had to potty train her, and teach her not to eat my things. She weighs 52 lbs now that she is fully grown. But we love her. She makes my life better. I take care of her every day, taking her to the park, walking her, feeding her, and petting her. She inconveniences our lives many days, but I wouldn't trade it for anything. Right now, she is lying at our feet, chewing on a rope, harassing us to take her to the dog park. And she just farted and it smells terrible. But having her around is everything we ever hoped it would be and more. She makes us smile ever day. Bailey is our puppy love.

Mother Mine

Yesterday was a day for mothers. A day when we scramble to find a way to show our mothers at least a small fraction of our love for her. For me, however, Mother's day is bittersweet, because my mother has been dead now seven years. Almost exactly seven years to be exact, because she died on May 29, 2003. That makes May a particularly emotional month for me, because it is punctuated with reminders of her absence. Part of me always wants to wallow in self pity this month, but as the years have passed, it just doesn't seem useful.

Instead, I just want to remember her better. I want to hold on to memories more than I want to hold onto my hurt and anger. So I've been thinking about some of my favorite memories. I remember how she used to make dinner every night and wait for my dad to come home. (This was in the time before cell phones were ubiquitous.) She would wait and wait and wait, and finally she would sigh with exasperation and tell us that we would go ahead and eat without him. Of course, no sooner did she issue that pronouncement, his truck would pull into the driveway.

There was the time when my sister told my mother in church, very loudly I might add, that her lipstick made her look like a floozy. This was a concept she picked up from my grandmother, who told her that she shouldn't wear bright red lipstick because it would make her look like a floozy.

And of course, there was the time when mom decided to cook a brisket overnight for the next day. Unfortunately, she turned the heat up way to high in the oven, and we all woke up in the middle of the night to screeching smoke detectors and a house filled with the stench of burning meat. By the time the brisket was removed from the oven, it resembled a charcoal briquette more than a piece of beef.

My mother was kind and funny and determined. She was brave and giving and had a great heart. I love her so much, and I still miss her, but I am determined to hold on to her memory. I am determined to remember the best of her and to apply the things she taught me to my own life. So, as I endured my own PET scan this morning for my own cancer, I tried to emulate her own grace under fire and her trust that the right thing would happen.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

What am I doing with my life?

Hello everyone, and by everyone I mean the 2-3 people who still randomly check my blog to see if I have posted anything in the past year. I've been promising that I would pick up my blogging again, and so here goes. It's been an interesting time lately. A year post stem cell transplant and it would seem that I am still in remission. I am having blood work done on Thursday and meet again with my oncologist a week from Tuesday. I'd like to say that I am anxiety free and that I don't worry at all about each and every check-up, but that would be a lie. I get a little nervous. To be honest, after the death of my friend Donna whose cancer came back with a vengeance, it's hard not to be a little scared. Not to mention still somewhat down. I miss her, and I still haven't fully come to grips with the fact that I'll never joke with her or talk with her again.

These past months have been great in terms of my health, as I seem to move from strength to strength physically, and yet have been somewhat tumultuous personally and professionally. I have yet to find a ministry position, which is frustrating, and leaves me wondering what it is that God wants me to do. I don't know if I should just take any job that I can get, or if I should hold out, or if I should just focus on my writing. I have been encouraged by several people to write a book, and I have been slowly working on that. I just don't know, and I am a little confused.

So that's where I am right now. Happy to be healthy, and wallowing in confusion. More to come.