Katie & Briscoe

Katie & Briscoe

Saturday, December 10, 2011

The Squeaker...

[This post will have to wait a few days to be published, because we have a rule about making it public (as in broadcasting it to the world on the web) when Mark is out of town. This week he's in Costa Rica for business. The events described took place on the night of December 7th and the following day, Thursday, December 8th.]

I am SUCH a sap. 

We have mice. Now, I am not the kind of woman who sees a mouse and runs screaming for help. (I reserve that for spiders, as they are clearly the deadliest creatures on earth and perfectly capable of ripping my arm off and beating me to death with it.) I do not fear or even hate mice, per se, but neither do I appreciate them chewing on and/or pooping all over my stuff. We have made several attempts to deal with them. Poison seems to have no effect. (Judging by the fact that I put it out, they scarf it down, and yet still keep right on living.) We tried one of those live "catch and release" traps but our mice are apparently too smart to fall for it. Neither Mark nor I could quite bring ourselves to set out the old-fashioned snap traps. 1) I don't want to have to empty them; 2) we have cats who would undoubtedly get their noses or feet snapped off while trying to steal the mouse bait. Which brings up the whole thing with the cats.

We have 3 cats. Generally speaking, they are fairly sucky at mouse catching. That, or they are just too lazy to bother. (Mark's theory.) At least one of them is capable of catching mice. There have been a few times the we got up in the morning to find a partially eaten and/or mutilated mouse corpse waiting for us on the kitchen floor. (Gross, I know, but at least she doesn't feel the need to bring her "present" into the bedroom and leave it on the bed for us.) There has been much debate about which cat is the capable, if lazy, mouser. Of the 3, there are 2 candidates: Lily and Marble.
Lily
Marble

























The 3rd cat is not an option. Phoebe is too old to care about chasing much of anything. She spends most of her time sleeping. Plus, she has this frustrating little problem with being unable to retract her claws. We call her the Velcro kitty because she tends to stick to things. Just walking across the carpet can be funny to watch. If she took a swipe at a mouse, the thing would still be stuck her foot hours later. So, either Marble or Lily is our off/on mouser. 

Mark is not a big fan of cats. He prefers dogs. You wouldn't know he has a preference, though, considering how willing he is to buy them toys. Lily generally deems herself above playing with "fake" mice and plastic balls with bells in them. Marble, on the other hand, goes bonkers for all of them. She will carry the fake mice around the house in her mouth, sometimes meowing at them. She chases the jingle balls until she loses them beneath furniture. Watching her play is not only cute, but entertaining as well. Which might explain why, when we were browsing the pet aisle at our local Wal-Mart a few weeks back, Mark took me seriously when I picked up a specific cat toy and joked that we ought to buy it.

Normally, when I get toys for the cats, I stick to the cheapest stuff I can find. I get the multi-packs of ridiculously colored fake mice or plastic jingle balls. This toy was different, though. It was a good-sized fake, stuffed mouse. What makes this mouse so special, besides its cute little ears, is that it makes a realistic squeaking noise. Every time the mouse moves, even just a tiny bit, it squeaks. I joked about how much the cats would love it and Mark was like, "Get it." So we did.
video
We brought it home and tossed it in the floor and Marble went nuts for it. Lily even plays with it sometimes. The cats find and lose and find and lose it over and over again. We'll see them batting it all over the place and laugh about someone finding "The Squeaker." Then it will disappear for a couple of days. The squeaking is fairly loud, so we can hear it whenever they have it, even if the TV is on. Mark says he's been woken up a few times during the night by the non-stop squeaking while Marble swatted it around. I've never heard it then, but I'm good at tuning those kinds of things out.

So I tell you all this so that I can tell you THIS. I was sitting here last night messing with my computer. Not sure what I was actually doing. Reading or something. Anyway, the TV was on but I wasn't really watching it. Then I heard the squeaker start up and I thought, "Oh, they've found it." I haven't seen or heard it in a few days. There's no telling where it was. I heard the squeak, then the sound of cat feet running around in the kitchen, then more squeaking. This went on for a few minutes before I sat aside the computer and glanced over into the kitchen. That's when I realized that the "squeaker" Lily and Marble were playing with was NOT the one we'd bought in the store.

There, in the middle of the floor, was a little mouse. A live one. Lily was doing that thing cats do where they let it go and wait for it to try to run before they smack it again. Now, as I have said, I do not appreciate the mice making themselves at home in my cabinets. I am always proud of my cats when I find that they've rid the house of one more of the little pests. However, I am way too much of a sap to actually sit and watch them kill one. So, idiot that I am, I got up and grabbed a cup and a paper plate and joined Lily and Marble in chasing the thing around the kitchen. It was pretty much worn out after what it had already been through. Plus, Lily and Marble actually helped herd it. I put the cup on the floor and used the paper plate to prod the mouse into the cup, then stood there trying to figure out what to do next.

If it were summer, I would have just put it outside. No doubt the mouse would have just found its way back into the house, but my primary goal was to not have to watch it die. But it was freezing cold out and since the thing is used to living in the house, I was standing there thinking that tossing it outside would be no better than letting the cats kill it. So I parked myself on the couch with my cup o'mouse beside me and sent Mark an email.

This is the actual email exchange between us.

Me: I heard squeaking & figured the cats were playing with the mouse.

I was right. It just wasn't the one I thought.

I couldn't stand to watch (or listen to) them kill it, so now I have it in a cup & have no idea what to do with it. I'm such a sap!

Mark: Unfortunately if they broke the skin it is dead already. I can get a habitrail for Christmas if otherwise

Me: I think it's actually all right, unless there's some kind of internal damage. It was clearly terrified, but running all over the place trying to escape Lily and Marble. I'm not actually going to try to handle it, of course, but from what I can see, it looks fine physically. It was panting like mad, but has settled down now that it's not getting cat paws to the head. It'd toss it outside, but I figure it'll just freeze to death.

Mark: Keep it. There is a small aquarium in the barn you can get tomorrow rip up the old clothes for bedding water cheese what more does a mouse need until we buy some bedding chips and a habitrail . I not sure what to put it  in until tomorrow. Probably needs water and warm dark place.

Me: Great. A pet mouse. What the heck are we going to call him? Her? God in heaven, I'm screwed up!
Love and miss you. Guess I'll go hunt up something to keep the little twerp in.
Mark: Twerp is a unisex name.
Me: I have to be in Madison tomorrow so assuming the mouse survives the night, I'll stop in at China-mart (our nickname lately for Wal-Mart) and see if they have a small habitrail. At the very least, I'll pick him up some hamster food, as apparently cheese is not actually what they should be fed. Seems that they are lactose intolerant. Who knew? I gave him some dog and cat food, plus some sunflower seeds. Water too, of course. We'll see how it goes.

My appt. tomorrow isn't until 9:45, so you should have no trouble getting hold of me in the morning.

I love you. Twerp loves you, too, since you didn't suggest I let the cats eat him/her. :) happy

And so, Twerp got moved into a fairly large plastic tub that once held kitty litter. This seemed somehow appropriate to me. I stuck him/her in the hall bathroom, so that I could shut the door and prevent the cats from finishing what they'd started. This morning I got up to check on Twerp and sure enough, he/she was fine. (I'm leaning toward she, because as I told Mark earlier, with my luck she's already pregnant and will soon give birth to a dozen more little Twerps.)
The big white thing in front is a toilet paper tube that I put in there thinking Twerp would like the idea of hiding in it. When I first checked on her this morning, she was inside it. I could just see her little butt sticking out. When I went back to check on her right before I left, she'd come out and was just sitting there.

So I went to my doctor's appointment, then went by Wal-Mart and picked up some stuff, including a little cage, complete with wheel, house, and water bottle. I got a couple of different kinds of feed, one for rats and mice that looks like little cardboard bricks and a hamster/gerbil mix that has seeds and stuff in it. Plus Twerp has a little salt wheel to lick and some apple sticks to chew on. Mice are like rabbits that way. They need to chew. Anyway, I got home and put the cage together, then added some bedding/litter made from ground up corn cobs. (I figure Twerp will like to eat that, too.) And finally I was ready to add Twerp. This was a bit more complicated than I expected, mostly because the door on the cage isn't all that large. Plus, Twerp proved to be completely uninterested in getting back into another cup. Eventually, I did convince her to go into her little toilet paper tube and so I picked it up and carefully put her into her new home. She does not like it.


She spent a couple of minutes running around, trying to figure out how to escape through the bars. Then she just parked herself in a corner and glared at me.
Of course, she has no idea that I not only saved her life last night, but am bending over backwards to keep her alive. See, when I got home from the store this morning. I found a gruesome little present waiting for me in the kitchen floor. This mouse - possibly Twerp's sister or brother or even a parent - was not as fortunate as Twerp. I was not here to rescue it. And so all that was left was a head and a bloody smear on the linoleum. (Double gross!)


Apparently, Lily did not appreciate me taking her super realistic "squeaker" away from her last night, so she went and caught herself another one. I do feel kinda sorry for it, but honestly, I'm just glad that she waited until I was gone to do it so that I wouldn't wind up with a pair of mice instead of just the one!


Ah, well, such is life. I don't know what's worse, me for being too much of a sissy to condemn the thing to death (either by cat or by freezing) or Mark for immediately suggesting we keep it like a pet. I have told him many times that when I was a kid I always wanted a hamster or gerbil. I had friends who had one and I thought it was just so cute. Mamma wasn't going for it, though. Dogs and cats were as far into the pet pool as we were going. Well, there were some chickens and a horse. And a duck named Seymour who was actually a female. But no rodents of any kind. Mark had a hamster when he was a kid and it escaped. His mom never quite forgave him for that.


Anyway, we now have a pet mouse. More accurately, we have a captive mouse, since Twerp does not actually seem interested in being a pet. I guess she'll live out her live in comfort and luxury though.


Anybody know how long mice live?


UPDATE: Well, I got up this morning (Friday, Dec. 9) and went to check on Twerp. Apparently, I did not secure the door properly and there was no Twerp in the cage. I looked all over the place, just to make sure, but she/he was gone. I was both saddened and relieved by this.

Then, tonight, right about the time I was due to start getting ready to go pick Mark up at the airport, I heard something fall over on the counter. A second later I heard a cat hit the floor. Sure enough, here came Lily trotting around the bar with a mouse in her mouth. I sighed, then got up and grabbed a cup. By the time I'd done that, Lily had dropped the mouse and it was making a run for it. She and Marble gave chase with me right behind them. This went on for a few minutes, Lily or Marble grabbing the mouse or swatting the mouse, me trying to keep them from killing it, it running behind anything and everything trying to get away from all of us. Eventually, the mouse faked the cats out and ran behind a box. I moved the box and it shot across the kitchen and behind the door that leads to the laundry room. The cats went after it and I followed. None of us was sure if it was still behind the door or if it had gone around the corner into the half bath. I was going in there to check when it took off back toward the kitchen then hung a right and darted across the living room floor. Lily caught sight of it and gave chase all the way to the end table. I sank onto the floor to look under the end table to see if Lily had caught it or if it was hiding somewhere. Right about that time, Katie (the dog) decided that she needed to join the fun. She came over to investigate all the action going on around the end table. The mouse picked that moment to dart out from behind the curtain where it had hidden. It spotted Lily and veered off, disappearing under the couch. Lily came out from under the end table, trying to follow the mouse. Katie took that opportunity to give Lily some of what she'd been dishing out to the mouse. She smacked Lily with her foot and tried to hold her down. Lily was too slick for her, though, and slid out between her back legs.

So, the mouse was safe beneath the couch. I have no idea if it was Twerp or not. If it was, then she clearly didn't learn her lesson about tangling with the cats. Mark came in and took a look at the cage and all the stuff in it and was like, "What mouse would leave this?" I must say I agree. It's a pretty snazzy setup. We're now thinking about getting a gerbil for it.


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Sunday, December 4, 2011

Old Prejudices...

I am positive that I have talked about racism here before. Being Southern by birth and heritage, it's an inescapable part of me. I openly admit that I had racist parents. But I also will add that they were what I think of as "generational" racists, meaning that they believed and repeated what they'd heard from their own parents. It had nothing to do with their personal experiences with people of color. They just grew up hearing a bunch of garbage and regurgitated it right back out.

This brings to mind a snippet from a live recording of a Carmen concert that I have on tape. On it he quotes Philippians 4:8.
Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.
Then he says, "Basically, garbage in, garbage out." I have never forgotten that. And as it relates to the vast majority of the racism I grew up being exposed to, I know most were just dumping out the same old garbage they'd been ingesting all their lives.

I grew up being exposed to it all, too. I won't even repeat the countless things I remember hearing my parents say. And I know I repeated at least some of it before I was old enough to recognize it for the garbage it was. I also know that my mother at least learned that much of what she'd been taught to believe was wrong. Mostly this came when she was finally in a situation where she worked with a black woman on a daily basis. That experience changed much of how she thought and felt. Still, I can only imagine the bedlam that would have ensued if I had met and fallen in love with someone of color, then tried to bring him home.

Which brings us to the situation that has got me thinking about all this. You may or may not have already heard about it.  But it comes from a Freewill Baptist church in Eastern Kentucky. Here's the link: US Church Bans Mixed-Race Couples.

Man, my heart sank when I first read that headline a day or so ago. Mostly because I knew that it would ignite a firestorm of backlash from untold numbers calling the church in question racists and worse. I know that it is likely less about straightforward racism though, than about a handful of people clinging to old prejudices and Bible verses taken out of context.

God laid out an extensive list of rules for the Israelites. One of them was that they were not to intermarry with other nations. The Old Testament mentions this more than once. Clearly God meant what He was saying. And He was kind enough to give us the reasons why He did not want His people marrying those of other nationalities. That reason is not only a sensible one, but a practical one. In short, He didn't want His people marrying people from other nations because those people would have their own gods and beliefs and this likely would cause the Jews to stray from their devotion to God. Makes a lot of sense. I can't imagine how hard it would be to remain strong in your faith when the person you are closest to not only didn't share it, but urged you to dump your faith and follow theirs. And even if your spouse wasn't pushing you to share their beliefs, it would inhibit complete unity between you if your core beliefs differed. So God forbade His people from mixed-nationality marriage. (Notice I said nationality, not race.)

As a quick aside, He also forbade them from wearing blended fabrics. He commanded that they should wear tassels on the corners of their garments. He commanded that men should not cut the hair on their temples. He commanded that His people observe a series of festivals and feasts throughout the year. He commanded that on the seventh day no work of any kind was to be done. He declared that certain animals could not be eaten because they were "unclean." The list - if you want to call it that - goes on and on and on.

Don't get me wrong. I absolutely believe that God laid down these laws. And I believe that He not only expected but demanded that they be obeyed. There are multiple examples in the Bible of people who flaunted these laws and rules and paid some steep consequences. Many of the great men of God were led astray by wives (or concubines - another thing God did not condone) and wound up turning their backs on God and worshiping other deities. Most of them came back to God eventually, but that straying caused them a lot of grief. So, there is absolutely Biblical evidence that God did indeed prohibit certain marriages.

HOWEVER - and this is the thing that so many seem to either miss or intentionally turn a blind eye to - these edicts about marriage are all in the Old Testament. They are all a part of the Law that was given to the Jews. Which is where the problem with prohibiting interracial marriage TODAY arises.

First, we are not under the Law. Jesus made that abundantly clear. He came to fulfill the Law. And even if one wants to make some kind of argument against that (though I can't imagine how) there is the also ignored point that the Law was given to the Jews, not the rest of the world. I am not a Jew. I am not a descendant of Abraham. Nor, I assume, are any of the members of this Baptist church. Since we are what the Bible refers to as "Gentiles" we have never been under the Law. Not buying that either? Then please, for the love of everything Holy, explain to me why it is that this particular tenet of the Law is the only one that seems to be singled out for adherence? What about that tassel thing? Or not eating pork? Or not wearing clothes made of mixed fabrics? And why is it that I've never heard a Protestant Christian teach or preach that we ought to be observing the Feast of Tabernacles or Passover? What about stoning our kids when they lie to us? Or how about stoning a woman who is raped in a town but didn't scream for help? And if sin is sin (which the Bible tells us it is) then how is any man who cuts the hair at his temples different than someone who marries a person with a different skin color?

You see the problem, I hope. We cannot pick and choose bits and pieces of the Law and claim that they are still in effect without in turn declaring the entire Law to still be our governor. This is exactly what we are taught NOT to do! The Law is not our master any longer. The New Testament tells us repeatedly that we have been freed from the Law. It's rules are no longer binding. Circumcision is no longer required. Sacrifices are no longer necessary. And God made it abundantly clear that the strict separation laws are no longer valid as well.

This is what I have always had trouble understanding. How is it that so many Christians flat out overlook what God tells us in Acts 10? God didn't just tell Peter to go preach to a Gentile. I mean, most Christians will swear with their last breath that God wants everyone to be saved, regardless of the color of their skin. Anyone who would dare to say otherwise is not what I'd call a Christian. Anyway, people have no problem with the idea of people of other colors being saved. (They'd have to flat out ignore that whole Ethiopian getting saved and baptized in Acts 8.) Yet some of these same Christians draw some kind of line at the idea of - lets just say it - a black man marrying a white woman or a white man marrying a black woman. I've often wondered if they would make the same distinction with say a person of Hispanic descent, or Asian, or Native American ancestry, or is it just black/white? I'll give them the benefit of the doubt and say they would.

So, God tells Peter to go preach to Cornelius, a non-Jew. No problem. But wait, that isn't just what God said in this passage. Remember all those rules from the Old Testament? One of them is "No pork, because it's unclean." Yet, while Peter is praying, his stomach presumably growling because the Bible tells us he was hungry, God gives him a vision. He shows Peter an assortment of animals, some of which were obviously on the "Do Not Eat" list and says, "Get up and kill yourself some food here and eat it." (Obviously I'm paraphrasing, here. If you want the word for word version, read Acts chapter 10.) Peter is not only stunned, but seems to be a bit insulted. He puffs out his chest and says, "No way! I've never eaten anything unclean!" Does God give him a big old pat on the back? Nope, He says, "Don't call anything unclean that I have cleansed." And God didn't just say this once, He repeated it two more times. I reckon He wanted to make sure Peter got the message.

While Peter is sitting there, trying to figure out exactly what God was trying to tell him, here comes a bunch of Gentiles wanting him to come with them. And suddenly, things start to click in his head. He goes off with them and meets Cornelius where he says, "I know it's supposed to be unlawful for me to keep company with a Gentile, but God has shown me that I should call no man common or unclean." The actual verse just for emphasis:
And he said unto them, Ye know how that it is an unlawful thing for a man that is a Jew to keep company, or come unto one of another nation; but God hath shewed me that I should not call any man common or unclean.
Acts 10:28 (KJV)
Peter goes on to point out that he now realizes that God is no respecter of persons, meaning that God has done away with that whole "I'm extra special because I was born a Jew and everyone else is lower than the dirt beneath my feet." (I am not saying that the Jews are no longer "God's chosen people." God made a covenant with them that is everlasting. They hold a unique and special place in God's heart and in His plan. But they are NOT the only ones who can or will be saved. Not anymore.)
But in every nation he that feareth him, and worketh righteousness, is accepted with him.
Acts 10:35 (KJV)
Tell me that this does not expressly say that anyone, in any nation, of any nationality, who fears God and accepts Him is deemed acceptable in His sight. Jesus didn't die just for the Jews. He didn't die only for a select group of people with a single color of skin. The fact is, we are all the same race. We are human. The color of our skin is a quirk of nature and genetics. God is no respecter of persons. He isn't a blue eyed, white man with flowing white hair and beard. Jesus absolutely did not have blonde hair and blue eyes. Which brings us full circle back to old prejudices.

God made it abundantly clear with the story of Cornelius and Peter that the old laws about who the Jews could and could not associate with were null and void thanks to the sacrifice made by His Son, Jesus. Peter points out that it was previously unlawful for a Jew to even spend time with someone from another nation. Never mind marrying one of them. Remember how surprised the Samaritan woman at the well was when Jesus not only spoke to her, but asked her to give him water? She had good reason to be surprised considering Jewish tradition and Law. Yet Jesus Himself refused to be swayed by such prejudices.

He staunchly ignored the Jewish notion of superiority and routinely spent His time with the very people the Jews abhorred. I don't imagine it was easy for Peter and the others to let go of the things they'd spent their lives being taught and possibly even believing themselves. The Bible doesn't give us any extra info about Peter's meeting with Cornelius, like whether or not Peter felt uncomfortable but pushed it aside so that he could honor God by obeying His will. I can't help but wonder if Peter had to remind himself a few times that things were different than they used to be. Oh, wait, I'm pretty sure the Bible told us that he did struggle with such issues. In Galatians 2 Paul has to call Peter to task because Peter is living a dual life, one for the Jews and one for the Gentiles. Basically, Peter seems to understand and accept that God has done away with the separation between the Jews and Gentiles, but when other Jews show up, he falls back into the old prejudices and starts observing the old traditions. So clearly it took some time for old habits and patterns of thinking to be done away with. If Peter had to work at letting go of the prejudices that had been instilled in him all his life, then I don't expect it to be any easier for us.

I don't know how old I was when I first started to realize that the things I'd heard my whole life were based in ignorance and prejudice. I can't remember when I first turned that corner in my understanding. I only know that these days, I'm regularly appalled by the racism I see in people who proclaim themselves to be Christians. (Let's not even get into political and social racism, which is not just a problem with whites.) Got told us that all scripture is given by God and is of benefit to us.
All scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness:
2 Tim 3:16 (KJV)
All means ALL, including the Old Testament. We aren't under the Law any longer, but that doesn't mean that there's no value in it and no lessons to be learned from it. My take from the whole ban on marriage with other nationalities is that there is plenty of reason to be careful when entering into a relationship with someone of a different nationality or "race." Along with different nationalities come different cultures. I've known white people from South Africa who believe and practice things I find exotic and strange. They're white and so fair game as far as marriage goes according to the Kentucky church and those who share their beliefs. But I say that "legal" marriage could be far more troublesome than one between people of different skin colors because if both of them aren't Christians, then all those same problems that God mentioned back in the Old Testament come into play. It doesn't matter what color your skin is, it matters who your God is. This is such a simple, undeniable truth, that I find myself repeatedly stunned by how unwilling some are to accept it.

To be sure, interracial marriage isn't something to be entered into lightly. Obviously, it is still going to cause some issues because there are clearly some out there who find it offensive. But I can see no believable, sustainable argument against it in the Bible. What I do see is Christians, often very decent people, who just can't quite seem to rid themselves of the deeply imbedded threads of racism that they very often aren't even willing to admit they possess. But then that's the flaw we all suffer from, isn't it? We are all incredibly skilled at ignoring and/or excusing our own flaws and failings. And that's why I'm writing this. Because I wonder how many of us are willing to take a long, hard, critical look at why we believe what we believe? How many of us are willing or even able to look at our own motives and beliefs objectively? It isn't an easy thing to do, especially when our beliefs and prejudices are challenged openly. So how about taking a little time wherever you are to look inward at what you believe? Is it really something you can back up with Scripture, or are you merely clinging to things you've heard or been told that conveniently line up with your personal feelings? It would do us all good to ask ourselves these kinds of questions. And it would do the whole world good if we would not just ask the questions, but act on the answers.

Monday, November 7, 2011

The End of This Trail...

It is so hard to believe that I'm pretty much at the the end of my cancer journey. I got my final treatment last Thursday. I have other appointments. I will get a heart scan and then see my oncologist in early December. I'll make regular trips to the treatment center to get my port flushed until they finally decide to remove it. I guess that will be the true end of it all.

I'll keep the port for a while, just in case a new problem arises. Lord willing, that won't be an issue. But better safe than sorry. I'll have a second mammogram on the breast that had the tumor some time early next year. I'll see my doctors regularly for the next year or so, then, assuming nothing new pops up, I'll be done with the cancer.

Of course, I'll never be truly rid of it. I'll spend the rest of my life feeling a bit like Damocles, always aware that there is a sword dangling overhead that could potentially drop at any moment. The difference, of course, is that unlike Damocles, I cannot simply choose to return to my carefree life. No cancer survivor can. Gosh, that sounds morbid, but I don't mean for it to. I'm simply pointing out that a cancer diagnosis is always life altering. Once that diagnosis is made, things change forever. Or they do for most of us. Because even if the cancer itself never returns, there are other consequences of having beaten the disease. Like the damage that can be done by the treatments that might not show up until years later. It becomes something of a waiting game, always wondering if that sword is going to come crashing down one day when you least expect it.

The point, I suppose, is that we have to keep going forward in spite of the danger we might face down the road. I can't just sit here and wait for the cancer to return or for my heart to fail or for any other frightening, unexpected, life-altering event. I have to live. I have to accept that things are different and always will be. I have to reject the part of me that is afraid of what might happen. It would be easy to live in fear. But I refuse to do it. Oh, I worry more now about little things. I mean, anything that "feels" wrong is enough to make me debate whether I need to talk to the doctor about it. Usually, I do. Because it would just be stupid not to. But I do not and will not let those concerns rule me.

God has given me freedom from the urge to worry or be afraid. To reject that freedom would be to reject Him. I won't be foolish, ignoring possible problems, but neither will I let fears of what might (or might not) happen at some point in the future ruin today. I had cancer. It will take years - a decade - of not seeing it return before doctors will give me the title of "Cancer Free." That's a long way off. And those words don't really mean anything in the grand scheme of things anyway. Because cancer doesn't operate on anyone's timetable. No matter how many times doctors and insurance companies tell us that we're not at the age where we need to worry about it, there will still be women like me who get a diagnosis in their thirties - or even younger. There will be women like my mother-in-law who get diagnosed with a terminal brain tumor that is generally considered a "man's cancer."  There will be people who beat it and go for decades before it suddenly rears it's ugly head once more. There will be children who barely begin to live before this damned disease takes their lives. And if it isn't cancer, then it will be something else. Life just can't be planned out like a business conference.

It is up to each of us to decide how we will live. Are we going to go through life with a massive chip on our shoulders, just daring God to knock it off? Or will we trust that He is always in control? That everything we experience, even the tragic, painful, or terrible things, are part of a grander plan that we cannot begin to see or understand? That's the belief I choose. I cannot fathom how anyone could do otherwise. Life is not easy. As the cliche says, no one ever promised it would be a bed of roses. And even if they had, roses have thorns. It is our responsibility to grow and learn from every experience. Our responsibility to understand that the world does not revolve around us. We don't have to understand everything. We don't have to have the answers to every single question. We just have to keep moving forward, keep growing and learning and trusting. And if we can do that, I think most of us will find that life comes with much more laughter and love than tears and pain. Because peace doesn't come from a lack of tribulation and storms, it comes from knowing that there is always a safe place in the heart of those storms. As one of my favorite expressions says, "God doesn't always quiet the storm, sometimes He quiets His child." Jesus said, "peace, be still" to the wind and waves, but He said it to us, too. Sometimes we just have to obey and let the waves and wind rage on around us.

Monday, October 17, 2011

My, How Time Flies...

It's almost over. There is one treatment left to go. There will still be a few more months of cancer related tests and appointments, of course. And the port will have to be flushed every six weeks until they decide to remove it. But after the first week in November, my cancer treatment will officially be over.

Looking back, it hardly seems possible that it has been more than a year since that moment when my doctor got that worried look on her face while doing my breast exam. It also seems hard to believe that that moment was truly the worst one of the whole journey. That instant when the whole world seemed to stop and my stomach dipped uneasily as I realized she'd found something she didn't like. That single split second when my mind leapt forward to the idea of cancer.

I know we're all different. From our individual personalities to our faith - or lack thereof - to our specific cancers and the treatments they require. Compared to so many others, I think I got off easy. I did not need a mastectomy. The cancer, while aggressive, was confined to that single tumor, making a lumpectomy the best option. My chemo was potent, but relatively short in duration. (Only 4 treatments of the worst stuff compared to others who've needed far more.) Eight total chemo treatments and six or so weeks of radiation just seemed to fly by.

When I look back, it's actually kind of hard to remember just how difficult it was. The pain could be intense at times. And the radiation left me feeling like a severely overcooked slab of meat, complete with blisters and peeling skin. There is still soreness. My breast varies from being mildly sore like an overworked muscle to being so sensitive that washing it in the shower is uncomfortable. It feels different than the other one. And while the Herceptin that I've been getting for the past year carries only one real side effect, it's a serious one. Potential heart failure at any point down the road. So that's something we'll have to keep an eye on. But all in all, I still count myself as having been profoundly blessed. Because I know I had it easy.

I think that's one of biggest keys to getting through the treatment. We have to keep in mind that it could always, ALWAYS,  be so much worse. Worse for me would be if it were someone other than myself. Because one of the things I have realized is that I find it profoundly easier to be the patient than to be the caregiver. Not because I dislike caring for others, but because it absolutely breaks my heart to see those I love in pain. I'm a fixer, I guess. Sadly, cancer isn't something that can be hugged or loved away.  Plus, I have no fear at all of dying. Losing those I love, however, is something I abhor.

Caring for and loving a cancer patient was infinitely more difficult for me than actually being the patient myself. Seeing what cancer did to my sister and mother-in-law hurt me in ways my own cancer couldn't begin to. I would gladly take on every illness of those I love just to keep them from having to go through it.

Which brings up another issue. My darling hubby has been diagnosed with type II diabetes. I have suspected it for a while and could kick myself for not forcing him to get tested sooner. It took his eyesight going haywire for him to finally admit something was wrong. Sure enough, his A1C test revealed that, at least for the past few months, his blood glucose levels have been hovering somewhere around 300! No wonder his eyesight went crazy. Funny thing is, it actually got better. A lot better. He's been on diabetes medication for about a month now and his eyesight is returning to normal, though it is still not back to where it was before.

He's a good patient, once he's actually convinced that there's a problem. He watches what he eats and was testing all the time until he got a handle on how certain foods effect his levels. I don't know if he's where he ultimately needs to be with his medication dosage, but he's come a long way from the high 200s and low 300s he was testing at in the beginning.

Ultimately, I see this as just another thing to be thankful for. Because God saw fit to give him a symptom he couldn't ignore. Because he's now being treated and is losing weight to boot. (Now, if I could just do the same. [sigh])  I'm almost finished with my treatment, he's easing into a new job, and life is incredibly good. I wake up every day thinking about how blessed we are.

So, I suggest that anyone out there who is struggling to find the good in their cancer battle might want to simply be thankful that it is them in the battle instead of their spouse, parents, siblings, or children. That's what I am most thankful for.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Squirrel!

We don't have children. This has not kept us from watching and enjoying several "children's" movies, however. These days studios that have traditionally always produced movies strictly for children are injecting expressions and moments into their children's films that are intended to be picked up by more mature audience members. They decided to do this so that the parents who are by necessity watching these movies with their children - hopefully in the theater when they are first released - will not be bored out of their minds. The problem is that sometimes, these "adult moments" are just a bit too overt. At least, I feel that way. There have been a few times that we were watching something obviously targeted to children that had a scene that was just too suggestive for my comfort. If I had children, I would be disturbed to have them watching it. I don't know what would be worse, having them understand some of the things that are meant to "go over their heads" or having them start asking, "What does that mean, Mommy?"

Anyway, despite the fact that we don't have kids, we have seen and in fact own quite a few movies that were made for kids. Hubby and I still quote lines from "Finding Nemo." That movie was so cute. And many of the other movies like it were funny and cute, too. But this post is about a different Disney/Pixar movie. "Up!" came out in 2009 and like so many of the Disney-Pixar movies that have come before it, was a hit. And also like all it's Pixar predecessors, "Up!" was filled with quotable moments. One quote from this movie stands out far and above all the others, however. If you haven't seen the movie, I highly recommend it. Just as a reminder, here is the quote I'm referring to.
video
As one commenter on another site said, "Who could have guessed that one word could be so epic?" And epic it is. Since the time we saw this movie, shouts of  "squirrel!" have been a common part of our family vocabulary. It's become a bit of a game to see who can shout it first when we see a squirrel while driving down the road - or anywhere else for that matter. But while the scenes and the basis of the quote are obviously founded in the reality that most dogs lose all thought of whatever they were doing when a squirrel catches their eye. the meaning goes far beyond this simple truth. And so "squirrel!" has come to mean more than the literal appearance of the furry little critters known for hoarding nuts. "Squirrel!" is a ubiquitous term referring to any instance where our train of thought or focus is inexplicably broken or snatched away by some transitory thought or event.

My husband has even taken to using the term "squirrelled" to refer to these moments. IE, "I was going into the bedroom but then I squirrelled and forgot what I was doing." He has especially used the reference in recent weeks because of an event that could have no other - or better - explanation than "squirrel!"

A few weeks ago, he drove my car to work because his truck had been acting funny the day before. He always calls me when he gets to work, to let me know he got there safely. This day was no different. I answered the phone. He said, "I'm here...... I wrecked your car." You'd have to know my husband to imagine how casually he said this. He has a devastating sense of sarcasm, which he thankfully reins in with me, but he's also capable of being incredibly deadpan sometimes so that it's often difficult to tell when he's being serious and when he's being sarcastic or joking. Even after 24 years together, I sometimes still have trouble telling when he's being serious. So for a moment I thought, "He's kidding." I think I probably said as much. Then he launched into his explanation of what had happened. I won't go into it because it was a rambling and breathless account that made little to no sense at the time. He forgets, sometimes, that I don't know everything he knows. Meaning he sometimes talks about situations or people or things, especially from his work, like I actually have personal knowledge of them. Which I don't. Not most of them, anyway. This event was no different. He was talking about a light and didn't seem to hear me when I asked him, "what light?" Then he mentioned that he looked down at the radio to turn it down and that's when it happened. He hit the cement base for a lamp post in the parking lot. The lamp post itself was apparently already gone, thanks to a semi truck at some point in the past. He hit this thing with the right front of my car and literally tore the bumper off. He made quite an issue of not understanding how it could have done so much damage considering how slow he was going and where he hit.

The long and short of it is, he was distracted first by this light on the building - which I finally later managed to get him to explain was in fact a light he was supposed to make sure was either turned off or on (still not clear on that part). He was trying to figure out if it was on or not. Then he jumped from that to the radio as he thought to turn it down so that he could call me to let me know he was there. And somewhere amid all that, he collided with the lamp post base. Later, he summed it up very succinctly by saying he "squirrelled." Since then, the term has become even more prevalent in our conversation. (My car has been fixed now, and looks better than it has in years. A blessing for sure.)

I've seen tee shirts that deal with this phenomena of sudden loss of focus by poking fun at how easily we are sometimes distracted by something "shiny."

And I own a shirt that pokes fun at the loss of focus associated with chemotherapy, called "Chemonesia" by the very creative designer of the shirt. Having experienced this firsthand, I can attest to how difficult it was to keep my train of thought, even while speaking. There were times that I would literally lose what I was saying in the middle of saying it. Thankfully, that seems to have stopped along with the chemo.

The point is, we are prone to being easily distracted, especially by fleeting thoughts and objects that flash like a mirror in the sun so that they immediately snag our attention. (This post is itself a testament to my own issues with difficulty maintaining my focus. I started it two days ago!)

Generally, these little distractions that pop up are harmless. They come and go, catching our focus for a moment or two, then we go right on with whatever we were doing. (Just like the dogs from "Up!") But sometimes, those distractions rob us of something important. They can interrupt our peace, intrude upon on times of prayer and meditation on the Word, and disrupt our thoughts when we're on the verge of gaining enlightenment. I've had this happen to me. I'll be reading my Bible, talking to the Lord, or listening to a sermon that's stomping all over my toes and suddenly, "squirrel!" Something completely random will pop into my head, or some flicker of movement or flash of light will jerk my attention away. Sometimes I can shake it off and get right back to where I was. But sometimes whatever I was on the verge of grasping is simply lost. The question arises, is this a tactic of the devil or a failing within myself?

I'm not a proponent of blaming everything on Satan. He's out there and he certainly does his best to get in our way whenever he can. But doesn't the Bible teach us that we are the ones with the power? That we can drive him away with the mere mention of the name of Christ? That if we make the effort to resist him, he will flee from us? Then why is it that we so often try to blame him for the problems in our spiritual lives?

I think that perhaps we are the ones failing to resist his lures. We let our minds wander when we should have them wholly focused on God. We place less importance upon our devotion and worship than upon the fleeting things of this life. We let thoughts about spouses, children, work, and countless other things, both large and small, intrude upon the time we ought to be wholly devoting to God.

Fortunately for us, God is utterly faithful. He tolerates our finite little minds wandering all over the place while He is trying to talk to us. He gently draws our attention back to Him when we've let it drift off to something else. He waits patiently for us to chase the squirrels that catch our eyes, and remains right there for us to come back to once we're finished with the chase. God's amazing, like that. I only wish I could do a better job of ignoring the squirrels. Because I hate thinking that I might miss out on something magnificent that God is trying to reveal to me simply because I couldn't stop myself from thinking about the laundry that I need to do or the grocery list or something else equally unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps it is like any other skill. Focus needs to be exercised and practiced to be strong. And that's where I fail so often. I don't practice like I should. I don't devote enough time to focus on the things of God. If I did, maybe the squirrels would be easier to ignore.

Right now, I'm trying desperately to ignore the intrusion of a desire to go scrounge up something to eat. [sigh] I'm hungry and that's just not easy to ignore. Nor is my dog, who is apparently needing to go out. (He doesn't bark or whine at me. He just won't sit or lay still for any length of time. And when he really gets desperate, he chomps his teeth at me.) Then there's the washing machine that dinged a while ago, letting me know I need to toss the sheets into the dryer if I want to sleep in my bed tonight. Oh, and there's the reminder I have programmed into my iPad that nags me until I finally get up and go change the bag in my litter robot. (Have I posted about this thing? It's amazing. Only has to be emptied every several days and by empty I mean take out the sack that collects the "waste" and put in a new bag. Takes all of two minutes. Thank You, Lord, for technological advances!) [sigh, again] My stomach is rumbling. Doggone it!

Oh, well. Might as well get up and deal with all the distractions. Then maybe I'll be able to focus on reading my Bible without - squirrel!

Monday, August 1, 2011

It's Baaack... (Not the cancer!)

You know, I've gotten a lot of comments since my diagnosis about how wonderful my attitude was. Several folks along the way have commented on how awesome it was that I was not only able to maintain my sense of humor, but to also use it frequently in relation to the many varied issues that come up with cancer treatment. (I make no claims to be a comedian, but I have seen quite a few people crack up at my response to some of the things that have come along.) Apparently, one of my most popular sentiments relating to cancer is a t-shirt I designed on Zazzle that says, "I beat cancer and all I got was this lousy t-shirt!" "One more MRI and I'll stick to the fridge!" has also been popular. Then, of course, there was the infamous "lint roller" trick to dealing with those last stubborn head hairs that just didn't want to let go. I can't take credit for the original idea. It was actually a trick someone on the Cancer Survivors Network mentioned. Still, if using a sticky tape lint roller on one's head isn't utterly absurd, then I just don't know what is.

Anyway, a lot of people seemed to be impressed by my attitude. Frankly, it came solely from my utter trust that God was in control. I mean, what's the point in getting all worked up over something that we cannot do anything about? It's cancer. Throwing a temper tantrum won't do a single thing to help it. Being furious that it came knocking at your door won't do anything but make you and everyone around you miserable. Cancer (along with countless other illnesses and troublesome issues that come up in our daily lives) is no one's "fault." Being mad about it just makes it harder to deal with. Plus, if you believe much of the current data, a good, "positive" attitude actually helps us heal faster. My point? It wasn't really so much me having a positive attitude as it was me flat out trusting God.

I should interject here that my faith and trust did not just wipe out all my natural concern about the situation and about what the future holds. I mean, I'm human. The moment my Dr. got that frown on her face while doing my breast exam and started focusing on that one spot sent a shock wave through me that I will never forget. We all dread hearing that word. CANCER. It's one of the major health terrors of the past several generations. But, I can honestly say I never panicked. I can't ever really remember even "breaking down." There were a few (and I stress few) tears, just moments when the enormity of the situation kind of overwhelmed me. Ultimately though, I just sat back and let God lead the journey. I was on the path and there was no point trying to find a shortcut, a trail off the the path, or balking like a stubborn donkey and forcing God to drag me forward. It simply was what it was and forward was the only way through it.

Yikes! This is not where I planned to go with this post! Funny how that happens.

I did my best to find the humor in all the absurd situations a cancer patient can find themselves in. It is my nature to seek out humor and to use it to help me cope with difficult situations. I just can't help myself. Then again, I can't help but notice that God has seen fit to place me into a LOT of situations throughout my life that, even if they weren't at all funny at the time, would wind up being some of the most hilarious moments of my life when I look back.

Case in point: And I mention this because it just came up a few days ago in response to something posted on Facebook by one of my favorite comedians, Chonda Pierce. Here's what she posted:
Thank you for all the prayers for David. He is healing nicely....the Dr said one half inch further and he would have lost his leg. Here's the call I will never forget, "Hi Hon, I was out in the boat with my chainsaw and had a pretty bad accident." He is now grounded from using power tools for the rest of his life!!
Yeah, I have absolutely NO idea what her husband was doing on a boat with a chainsaw. I mean, try as I might, I simply cannot come up with a reasonable scenario where this would make any kind of sense. But then, as I replied to her, I also have a husband who has not been gifted with what I consider to be a "normal" measure of common sense.  While my darling husband has never had any serious mishaps with power tools, he does have a rather dubious history with fire. I should point out that he grew up in a home with a wood stove. He ought to be more than capable of grasping not only how one works, but the utter lunacy of, say, throwing kerosene into one that is already lit!

Have I mentioned that my husband is a genius? Literally. He was tested in school. He has an understanding of and appreciation for mathematics and physics that I will never, ever be able to match. And I'm no slouch in the intelligence department, either. Yet, though he is perfectly capable of grasping the finer points of the inner workings of space and time and things like singularities and string theory, he cannot seem to wrap his brain around the fact that one does not need highly flammable fluids like kerosene, gas, or lighter fluid to start a fire.

So, many years ago, (before I'd fully grasped his utter incapability when it came to fire) we were living in a home we rented. We had bought a wood stove from his parents when they decided to switch from wood to oil heat. Our rental home had a large living room and large kitchen that shared a good sized open doorway. There was a location just inside the kitchen area that was meant to hold a wood stove. We did use kerosene heaters to heat the house when it wasn't too cold, but once winter set in fully, we switched to the wood.

Anyone who's ever had a wood stove will be aware that they generally have two settings. Hotter than lava and off. We literally had times when that thing would be going that we'd open the front door - in the dead of an Indiana winter - to try to cool the house off a bit. (I'm smiling now as I look back on this. We laugh all the time about the joys of having a wood stove. Despite the sometimes tedious difficulty of regulating the temperature, there is just nothing quite as warm and comfortable as wood heat.)

I did not grow up with a wood stove, per se. We did have a fireplace, however, and somewhere along the way my brilliant mother decided to purchase an insert for it. This was, essentially, a wood stove that was designed to fit into the space of the fireplace. It was sealed up like a wood stove, meaning it had gaskets around the doors and a damper and various air vents to regulate the air flow and thus the rate of burn. It also had a nifty blower system that forced the hot air from the cavity around the insert out into the room. Now we lived in Mississippi, not exactly known for it's frigid winters, but that wood stove saved my parents a lot of money on the utility bill in the winter. And it was how and where I learned how to build a fire using novel things like newspaper and kindling. (No kerosene or gas.) The wood stove my husband and I had was merely a significantly larger version of that fireplace insert. I started it regularly with no difficulty at all.

Another feature of wood stoves is that, so long as they are sealed up nicely, you can bank them at night when you go to bed and there will still be plenty of coals waiting for you the next morning. Generally, all you have to do is rake those coals a bit to get them a little air, then toss some smaller logs on them so that it starts burning actively again, then you can fill that puppy up with some big hunks of wood to keep it going for hours. This is all contingent upon making sure there's plenty of wood in the stove the night before, however, and on making sure you almost completely close all the vents so that it doesn't get too much air and burn too fast. Make that mistake and you wake up to a cold stove that has to be completely re-lit. Apparently, that's what happened one cold morning.

We had a water bed at the time. We were too cheap to buy one of those fancy dresser drawer stands for it, so had the base that consisted of nothing more than a simple frame to support the bed. This meant the bed was fairly low to the floor. Which was fine. We were both a lot younger then and had no trouble getting in or out of the thing. I shudder to think what that would be like these days! So, Hubby gets up before me. I don't even remember him getting out of bed. My first memory that morning was coming slowly awake and frowning as an odd smell hit my nose. While I was sniffing, trying to figure out what it was, I heard his voice right beside my head. He was calling my name in a soft voice, gently waking me. I opened my eyes to find him kneeling beside the bed, his face mere inches from mine. His first words when my eyes opened? "Honey, do I still have any eyebrows?"

Yeah, that was right about the time that my sleepy brain kicked into gear and figured out what that smell was. Burnt hair. (You need to realize that my husband is one of those truly hairy men. He had a full beard in something like eighth grade and has only shaved that beard off completely like once in the more than 2 decades that we've known each other.) Needless to say, his words brought me fully awake. He did still have eyebrows, though all his facial hair was a bit singed. It seems that he'd gotten up to find the stove too cold to fire up by just tossing wood into it. So, in his profoundly brilliant and logical mind, he came up with the notion of pouring kerosene on the wood before putting it into the stove to light. It lit just fine, then promptly went right back out as soon as all the kerosene burned off the surface of the wood. Apparently, his next logical leap was to determine that it must have been getting too much air, making it burn too fast. If he could just repeat the procedure with the door shut, then it would burn slower and thus actually catch the wood on fire. The problem, of course, was how to actually start the fire with the door closed. Clearly this is a logistical problem. So he put some kerosene into a mason jar he'd taken from the kitchen. He poured some of it over the wood INSIDE the stove, put a bit more kerosene in the jar, then got himself ready. He first tossed a match into the stove, which lit the kerosene. Then he took the jar of kerosene and flung its contents into the stove with the intention of slamming the door closed right behind it.

I wish I could convey my expression via these typewritten words. This all happened somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty years ago and I am still torn between the desire to laugh myself senseless and to smack him with the nearest heavy object. Needless to say, his plan did not work. Though he has a complete understanding of the laws of thermodynamics, he was incapable of applying those in any practical way, it seems. Because the result of his "plan" was a massive fireball that came shooting out the door he was, of course, kneeling right in front of while trying to slam it shut. He said he was quite sure it shot well into the living room. Fortunately the only flammable thing in its path was him. (Excuse me for a moment while I pause to laugh again.)

Okay, I'm back. He was unharmed by this stunt. His hair, while singed, was not truly burned and returned to normal quite quickly. I did, however, have to get up and start the stove, since all his kerosene had burned off again and there was still no actual fire in the stove. This was the first moment I realized that fire and my genius husband did not mix. There have been other incidents through the years. The most serious being the "brush fire" he started on a windy day on the hillside down below our barn, in a place where our water hose would not reach. I wanted to call the fire department right off the bat but he insisted he had it under control. The milk jug he was running back and forth between the fire and the end of the water hose would work just fine. (Head shaking at the memory.) I watched him for a few minutes, then decided when the fire hit the first cedar tree and sent flames forty or so feet into the hair that it was time to dial 911. I was halfway to the house when I heard him yell for me to call the fire department. They came and put it out pretty quickly, before it could reach our house and just about the same time that it jumped the road below us and tried to spread into the valley. (Funny as this story is to look back on, it wasn't at all funny at the time and would not have been even remotely amusing if it had indeed spread into the valley below our home. People live there. Lives could have been lost and property certainly would have been because there are no such things as fire hydrants out here. They had to use a tanker truck. They would have had nowhere near enough water to douse a fire that big. Thank You, Lord, for sparing us all that disaster!)

My beloved husband, whom I adore with all my heart, put the blame for that fire on me! He and his brother-in-law, who'd taken part in the starting of the blaze, stood there with the firemen after they'd put it out and explained how they'd told me and his sister that it was too windy to start a fire but that we'd insisted. He was being facetious, but my husband's sarcasm is often difficult for others to grasp. I have always doubted that the firemen realized he was making a joke. Anyway, for a few years after that, we were recognized around town as "the people who'd had the fire on the ridge." Literally, we would walk into the local grocery store and while checking out, the cashier would say, "Oh, you're the people who had that fire out on the ridge." Ah, life in a small town.

Suffice it to say, that was the day we instigated new rules in our family. Hubby is no longer allowed to start any fires unless he's under my direct supervision. He has been flatly forbidden from ever, under any circumstances, using flammable liquids like gas, kerosene, or lighter fluid to start any fires. There have been a few instances, however, when he has ignored these rules. Or at the very least, skirted them. This series of shots was taken last year on an outing to a state park.
We had the dogs with us, so I did not realize what he was doing because I was taking pictures of them. Then I turned around and the first image is what I saw. The charcoal had already been lit, but wasn't going fast enough for him. Of course I felt I ought to snap a picture of it, seeing as it might be the last good shot I would get of my husband. I was yelling at him to put the lighter fluid down as I took the shot, though. You can see in the second shot that he wisely backed away from the conflagration, ever mindful of the singed facial hair of his past. And that look on his face in the last shot is his typical reaction to being caught doing something he knows very well that he should not be doing. Even as I was shooting the pictures, I was reminding him of his history with fire. God bless him, he just doesn't ever learn.

So, maybe a good part of my sense of humor is a result of my husband's sense of humor. We do laugh at and with each other quite a bit. I mean, it is a common occurrence for us to laugh so hard we get tears in our eyes. Often those laughs are due to something absurd one of us has done or said. Long story short: God blessed us by giving us both senses of humor that the other appreciates for the most part. I do so wish God would just see fit to gift my husband with a bit of wisdom when it comes to fire, though. Barring that, I simply pray that God will continue to protect him from his own idiocy. Lord knows I love that man to death.

Sigh. (Now I'm feeling all sappy and love struck.) There's a reason or the wild swings in emotion, though.

Getting chemotherapy has a lot of effects on the body. One of the major ones for a woman is that it sends us into medically induced menopause. That means we get all the joys of hot flashes and such for the duration of treatment. Those hot flashes were brutal. I lost track of how many times I literally thought I was going to up and melt. But, hey, it came with some up sides, too. Primarily, no menstrual cycles.

Not to get too graphic, but my menstrual cycles have never been what I'd call normal. They started kinda late and hit with a vengeance that literally had me wishing I would just die. I can remember being in what I can only describe as agony. Laying in the middle of my bed in a fetal position, praying it would just stop. I remember being at school once when I was in so much pain that any touch on my body, even on my arm, hurt. My mother, whom I flat out adored and respected, did not grasp just how bad it was. She was of the "if you aren't running a fever and/or throwing up, you aren't sick" mindset and so I went to school in spite of the pain. You've got to understand that this was before the days of the internet where we could research something on a whim. And frankly, she was from the country and the notion was that women have been having menstrual cycles since the dawn of time and they got through it just fine. I do remember more than one person making the joke that if I thought menstrual cramps were bad, then I'd never make it through child birth.

All joking aside, I quite literally cannot imagine labor pains being much worse. I don't blame my mother for not taking it seriously. I don't remember how seriously I complained about it. I know for a fact that it wasn't something I'd ever mentioned to a doctor. I just remember that it was a nightmare. An unpredictable nightmare, since it didn't come on any sort of schedule or remotely reliable cycle. Anyway, I was 18 when I started taking birth control pills. I had no idea at that time that the pills could and would impact my periods. I was beyond pleasantly surprised when I found that they not only became regular, but that the pain not only became easily manageable, but often didn't manifest at all. It was years later that I learned, either from a doctor or from my own research on the internet that the hormones in birth control pills were designed to regulate the hormones within our bodies that trigger menstrual cycles. Not only that, but the pills were often prescribed specifically to help women with cycles like mine. Who knew?

So I stayed on the pill continuously from the time I was 18 until last year when I was diagnosed with breast cancer at 39. It was last fall when my oncologist told me I had to not only stop taking the pill but that I would never be able to take it again. I don't mind telling you that I hated hearing that. But, the consequences of that fact weren't of immediate concern. The chemo brought on temporary menopause, which in turn meant no periods. For months now, when doctors asked me when I had my last period, I've been telling them October of 2010.

I saw my OB/GYN in June and we talked about when and if my periods would come back. I was very encouraged when she told me that it could easily be months or even years. Possibly maybe never. I was desperately hoping it would be never. Because without the pill, I feared I would be facing the agony I remembered from my teen years. She said that it wouldn't necessarily be so. But even if it was, there were things besides hormones like the pill that we could do. Still, I really hoped it wouldn't be an issue.

Then, day before yesterday, I got the gift of my period for the first time in 9 months. In all seriousness, it scares me more than the cancer did. I know that sounds insane, but it's the truth. I just cannot stress how horrible my periods were before I started taking the pill. And it's not like I feel comfortable telling everyone who asks how I'm doing that I'm fine, except for the cramps. LOL

I got up and went to church yesterday morning, but then came home after Sunday school because I could feel the pain getting worse in spite of the ibuprofen I'd started taking the day before. It didn't get too bad. As I told my hubby when he asked me how I was feeling that evening, "I'm not wishing I was dead, yet." So that's something to be grateful for. They're worse, today, though. Still nothing like what I remember, but I can't help worrying that they'll get there eventually. If not this month, then the next time, or the time after that. I did research about it yesterday when I got home from church and learned that doctors recommend taking ibuprofen or Aleve or the like before the pain starts and on a regular schedule for a few days whether there's real pain or not. I've been doing that since Saturday afternoon.

It's crazy to be more afraid of menstrual cramps than cancer. It's crazy for any child of God to be afraid of anything. But somewhere deep inside me there is a teenage girl who remembers being curled up on her bed, crying and praying for the pain to stop. Lord, help me, I don't know if I can take it again. So, while I would never realistically wish to go through chemo again, I do miss the benefit I got of not having to worry about a monthly agony.

In the long run, my menstrual cycle is no different than the cancer. It's beyond my control. I can't stop it or fix it or wish it away. If the pain gets just as bad or even worse than what I remember, there's not one thing I can do to change it. I'll seek a doctor's help if that turns out to be the case, but it will be up to God alone whether that doctor's suggestions have any impact. The thing about the cancer is, it didn't really hurt. Oh, there was pain here and there, days of discomfort, difficulties like hair loss and nausea and that nasty taste in my mouth. There was the exhaustion and the hot flashes, the difficulty concentrating. But somehow, it never truly scared me. Maybe because I saw it all as temporary. It would come and it would go. The treatment would work or it wouldn't. Either way, I wasn't in true pain. This, however, is different. I not only hurt, I potentially might hurt A LOT. And I could very well be facing years of hurting badly on a monthly basis.

Funny how some things scare us more than others. (There's my utterly irrational fear of spiders as a prime example, but we'll just leave that for another day.) While I am a bit of whiner, and I certainly do not enjoy pain, I do in reality have a fairly high tolerance for it. Or perhaps it's better described as a resignation to enduring it when there's simply no other choice. Still, I am praying for God's mercy and intervention in this situation. If I'm on the cusp or revisiting the terrible pain of my adolescence, then I pray God will help me endure it with grace. Lord knows I'll need Him. I need Him every moment of every day.

And now, I'm going to go lay down for a little while. Maybe I'll drag out the heating pad, since the stuff I read yesterday said it can help. The ibuprofen isn't working as well today. But laying down will give me a chance to get ahead on my bible reading. (I'm still doing the 90 days through the bible thing.) I have been not only staying caught up on my reading, but I frequently read ahead, sometimes even a full day ahead. It just gets kind of hard to stop right in the middle of the story, even when I know how the story's going to end. :)

See, there's always an upside. Always something positive to be found if we will just look hard enough!