overhaul of week 7

My day trip to Rüdesheim was one of the best days of my life. I can't remember that day without smiling. It wasn't the presence of my boyfriend that made it so wonderful, although that didn't hurt matters. What made this one of the most precious days of my life was the overwhelming love from my boyfriend's Oma and Opa. That day they were my grandparents. I borrowed them but I'm not afraid to say I would have stolen them if I had to! Thankfully Christian is sweet and was willing to share.

The whole day was perfect. All of the details like the overpriced shops, the filthy pay to use bathroom, and the shop keeper who thought I was a dumb American who wouldn't argue about being ripped off (he was wrong) are just that, little details. It's been almost a year and I still feel like my chest is going to explode when I think back on that day. They were the grandparents I had always dreamed of. It didn't matter that they spoke fast Spanish and rusty German, I didn't need their words. They freely gave their love and that was something I had waited 23 years to find in a set of grandparents. I hurt my face from smiling so much. When we got home that night I collapsed on the bed and "basked." Christian was checking his email and would periodically turn around to see what I was doing. Each time he looked at me I did something spastic like kick my feet in the air while announcing, "Still basking!"

The first stop on our trip was to see Niederwalddenkmal. I am borderline possessed with German history and there isn't anything that screams Germany quite like a ten and a half meter tall monument of Germania. It is set up high overlooking gorgeous views of the Rhein but I couldn't stop staring at it. I was so enthralled that I snapped far too many pictures and then requested that Christian take pictures of me in front of it. Then, realizing that for once we had someone to take a photo of both of us, we asked Oma and Opa to take our picture with it. When Opa handed the camera back to me to check and make sure it was okay I had to laugh. He had zoomed in on our faces. I was standing with my gorgeous German in front of the symbol of Germany and he just captured our faces. That was what mattered the most to Opa. We laughed and asked for another picture and Oma tried to explain to her husband but we never got a full shot of the statue and us. Looking back I am so glad that there is the picture of us holding each other up and laughing. The monument was amazing but it paled in comparison to being young and in love.

After a very silly trip through the nearby birds of prey exhibit full of overheated and exhausted owls and hawks we headed down the hill. We all strolled the quaint little streets and gawked in the windows. Being in a country that lacked national pride was strange for me and it was heaven to finally find German souveniers.  As we walked, I held hands with Chistian and Oma and Opa held hands. I couldn't stop smiling at them and hoping that Christian and I would be like that in our 80s. I have never met a couple more in love than those two. He looked at her like she was his brand new bride.

The weather was perfect and we ate outside. Lunch was another exercise in absurdity when I tried to grab an opportunity to pay for lunch. They had been treating me to different things and I desperately wanted to pay my way. I excused myself and went inside to find our waitress. She ignored me and went outside to announce to Christian and his grandparents that she had no idea what I was talking about. The one time I had the jump on Opa and the waitress didn't speak English! I was embarrassed but everyone got a big kick out of it. After lunch had settled and we were walking around again I tried to pay for eis. I got my money to the counter at the same time Opa did but the rascal cashier took one look at me, one look at Opa, and apologized to me as he took Opa's money.

On the ride back to Frankfurt I fell asleep in the backseat. I was like a contented child after a long day in the sun. Even the Cola Lite I had filled my system with wasn't enough to keep my eyes open. I listened to them quietly chatting in Spanish and snuggled Christian and the next thing I knew they were chuckling and shaking me awake to go inside the house. I'm so blessed to have had the chance to call them mine for a month.

14 - The Neti-Chronicles

Am I really going to use something that is labeled a “nose bidet’? I’m finding this hard to believe. The specialist says it will help so I know I need to use it but I’m more than slightly alarmed by the idea. I’m not buying all of the claims that it is a pleasant or soothing sensation. I’ve been putting it off for too long though. I need to do my research and whip up a batch of salty sinus soothing sensation!

The first thing I notice is that my neti-pot isn’t the classy kind. I am too cheap to spring for the porcelain model and I’m instead going to rock out with a “free sample” version that my nose and throat doctor gave me. Although, on the plus side it doesn’t have the appearance of one model from Norway that looks like it belongs in an adult store. I’m not an expert on the topic and it may be the name of “rhino horn” that is throwing me but something just isn’t right with that one. To be honest, mine is rather boring compared to the other models. Mine isn’t even shaped in a way that is conducive to singing “I’m a little teapot” or rather, “my nose is a little teacup.” The variety of designs is astonishing. They even sell more decorative ones for when you apparently need your sinus cleaner to make a fashion statement.

I learned something terrifying in my studies. Oprah recommends it. In my opinion, anything Oprah recommends is either painful or depressing. Or, if you’ve ever read something from her book club: both. Why does Oprah need something to wash out her sinuses? Can’t she employ an army of little people to hose down the old nose each night? I’m a do it yourself kind of girl though. I’m also afraid I’ll now be having nightmares about oomph-loompas coming at my nose with garden hoses. Great.

I found the videos about neti-pots more hilarious than informative. I’m also noticing a strong connection between mullets and the neti-pot. I wonder if I will have to get a new hairdo if I start using this thing on a regular basis? I have to say that it is already helping me. They say laughter is the best medicine and I haven’t laughed as hard as I did during mustache-man’s infomercial in a long time. I now know that I can talk while I am cleansing my nose. After how many years of marriage does that become something you are comfortable doing? My Mum is insisting on supervising me the first time I use it but that’s due to the fact that she’s afraid I’ll manage to drown myself due to my abnormal sinus situation. She loves me no matter what anyway. I like to take my prosthesis out every now and then and yell, “Ma, get my teeth!” just for kicks. I feel that most people probably don’t have that same kind of bond and I’m a little disturbed that he felt the need to reassure me that I can continue my normal conversation. I’m also more than a bit disturbed by the disclaimer that it is nothing like waterboarding torture. That's good to know because I was worried!

All kidding aside I have learned a lot about sinus cleansing. I hope that it is as life-changing as all of these testimonials claim. Ireland was the only relief I have had in my chronic sinus infections since I had my surgeries. A container filled with salt water is slightly cheaper. Speaking of costs, I’m extremely relieved to see that you can mix your own solution. I need to pick up non-iodized salt tomorrow. The general consensus is that ¼ of a teaspoon per 8 ounces of warm water is all I need. Why do people pay for already measured packets? That’s a new level of lazy.

I’m truly amazed by how popular these things are. I find it rather maddening that it wasn’t suggested that I try one before! There are actual blogs devoted entirely to talking about neti-pots and sinus cleansing! And if that wasn’t amazing enough, I have discovered that several entire books were written on the subject. I’m in awe of this phenomenon. It’s used for allergies and most sites talk a lot about how it helps the cilia function but that is useless to me. I have a “damaged mucociliary transport system.” Basically, my body isn’t doing the job so I need to do it manually. I don’t even have the cilia that they are so enthralled with discussing.

I feel a little bit intimidated that it is linked to Ayurveda because I studied a lot of Ayurvedic techniques when I was considering an apprenticeship as a massage therapist. I was a bit turned off of the idea when I read so many completely off the wall and sometimes dangerous treatments. But, I’m all about alternative medicine if it will actually work and I continue to experiment with anything from licorice pills for IBS (all I can say: ouch!) to fish oil for my dry eyes (works brilliantly and I no longer have “plugs”). Anything that will keep me from needing so many antibiotics would be a wonderful thing. Sinus irrigation is a lot simpler than I had imagined. It is also a lot more popular. Now, if all the kids were jumping off a bridge I wouldn’t jump too but snorting water? That I’ll do!

13

Vier Minuten

I started this movie expecting to hate it. I had read a review that said something along the lines of “this movie is not a movie to enjoy, just watch.” Well, that didn’t sound appealing to me. I’ve watched too many movies that in my opinion, people just pretend  to “get.” I was afraid this would be one of those overly pretentious movies that people say you “should watch“ that leave me wanting to bang my head against a wall. I don’t understand the concept of not enjoying a movie if it is a quality movie. And if I don’t get something, I say so. Vier Minuten wasn’t at all like I was expecting. Bleibtreu and Herzsprung were phenomenal. The emotions didn’t feel forced. This movie has so much raw emotion and they handle it well. I’m anxious to watch more movies with these incredible actresses. I was completely drawn in. It is a very dark and emotional movie and is certainly a far cry from standard movies these days. I watched it over a month ago and it is still fluttering through my mind. The characters were frustrating and complex but somehow I wanted Jenny to have her sense of accomplishment. Jenny’s self-destruction was painful and the layers of why each woman became who they are both shed light on and confused the picture. Nobody was perfect. There were no “good characters” or “bad characters.” I didn’t feel like the movie was spoon feeding me how I should feel about them. Too many modern movies have no faith in the viewers and spell everything out to us. This was the highest quality “new” movie that I have watched in a long time. The good and the bad were jumbled together and complicated like they are in real life. This is the most cryptic review I’ve ever done but discussing the specific pieces would ruin part of the movie’s appeal, I think. As I’m reflecting on what to say about this movie I realize that removing pieces from this movie would be like taking pieces out of a puzzle. It doesn’t have the same effect. It manages to be frantic but slow and dark but hopeful. It is a whirlwind movie experience. I love that everyone will walk away with this movie with a different impression. Everyone will extract different parts that replay in their minds. I think that this is the first recently made “movie that makes you think” type of movie that I have enjoyed in a very long time. I credit that fact to their faith in their work. They let the movie lead you wherever it is you might go. They don’t tell you or push any specific idea on you.

And the last “vier minuten” or rather, four minutes?
Absolutely breathtaking.

12

If you asked me to find a symbol of my childhood I would hand you a copy of a well-worn, taped together, yellowing “Little House in the Big Woods.” The entire series is on the shelf in the library at my parent’s house but this was the book that started it all. It says $3.50 in the top left-hand  corner but this book is worth so much to me.

My Mother first read the book to me and my brother when I was too little to make a lot of sense out of what was being read. We loved being read to and these were her favorite books as a child as well. The first memories I have of this book and of my life are simply of cuddling with my Mum and brother. I enjoyed hearing my Mum read and the simple joy of being together with my family as we read about another family. A family from 1870 and beyond came to life in our house in 1980 and beyond.

The constant sibling fights and my brother’s endless need to pick at me to make me squawk became suspended while we listened to my Mother’s voice. We begged her to read the books constantly. A few years later, after the first reading through of the books I requested that she read them to me again. My brother sat through the entire re-reading of the series. By the time she read the books through again I was ready to start at the beginning and read them myself! I have no idea how many times I read these pages or listened to my Mum bring the words to life. Sometimes we would all be under the covers at night but my favorite times were when we sat in the living room by our own woodstove. I could imagine myself being Laura that much easier with the setting of the fire in front of me. I was a farm girl and Laura Ingalls Wilder was my hero. The way the Laura is staring lovingly down at the doll in her arms on the cover of the book is exactly the way I must look gazing down at the book in my lap today.

I have set the scene for myself again.  I’ve built a fire in the fireplace and I’m snuggled in a pile of blankets to revisit why I fell in love with these books over and over. This “Once upon a time….” was the beginning of my lifelong love affair with books. Each one of the thousands of books I have picked up in the 20 years since I first heard about Laura and her sister Mary is due to the magic I found within these pages. In a way everything I have read since the Little House books has been an attempt to find the love I had for this series.

I remember so much of the books even though it has been years since I read them. I remember being horrified by them being excited on slaughtering day because they would get a pig tail and Pa would blow up the pig’s bladder for them to use as a ball. That was a lesson for me and my brother… children happy to have a blown up bladder to play with. I remember pretending to be them as they played in their attic in the winter months surrounded by the food that was being stored for the winter. I vaguely recall begging my father to grow big pumpkins so I could sit on them like tables and chairs like Laura and Mary did. If I sit and think about it so much of their stories come back to me. They are beautifully written and all the more engaging for children when you talk about how this was the author’s childhood. She had not only an interesting story to tell but knew how to tell it. Clearly Laura inherited Pa’s gift for telling stories. Opening any page pulls up how she creates vivid images with her words, “They were cosy and comfortable in their little house made of logs, with the snow drifted around it and the wind crying because it could not get in by the fire.”

Someday, when I am blessed with a family of my own I will start reading the series to them. Since my own children are many years in the future I will content myself with reading them to other peoples children. This summer I have the pleasure of fulltime care of an eight year old farm girl. She’s not hooked on books yet but my plan is to read the series to her over the summer and see where it takes us. I have a feeling she will fall in love. I certainly fell in love with Little House in the Big Woods. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some reading to do.

11

I shimmy to my seat next to the window. As long as I have one side that isn’t stranger I can stay sane. First things first, I snatch up my wee little pillow and blanket to make sure I have them. The blanket works well to cover my lap for some semblance of decency when I tuck my legs up underneath me while wearing a dress. I kick my duffel bag into its standard place at my feet. My flats get kicked off and I wedge them underneath my bag. Next I need to peel off my layers of jacket, scarf, sweater, and long sleeved shirt to tuck in at my side. Never mind if it is the middle of summer - these items of clothing serve as a pillow in place of the airline one that is the size of a breath mint.  Plus they are that much less weight in my dangerously close to the weight limit suitcase. My travel policy is to wear several more layers than your standard bag lady in the middle of winter.

I hold my breath until I see who sits down next to me. “Please not a creepy, fat, smelly man. Please not a creepy, fat, smelly man.” I’ve been next to screaming infants, a vomiting toddler, and a six year old who had been traveling for the prior 12 hours with only intermittent naps but for some reason I dread the “creepy, fat, and smelly man” the most. I blame the trip back from Ireland where the man sitting behind me looked just like the rapist in the movie I was watching. That was one trip I had a sore neck from glances over my shoulder and not the awkward angle napping. I can plan everything but I know I cannot plan this. Still, I figure a few prayers won’t hurt anything. Does God have more important worries than if my right side smells like B.O. from sitting next to Captain Hygiene for eight hours? Obviously, but I put a word in just in case there is a slow moment. 

While I await my neighbor-fate I go about arranging everything I have planned. Puzzle book, iPod, magazine, and two books are slid out of my duffle bag’s side pocket and stacked on the top of my bag. The planning of airplane books is critical. I always bring one book of a frightening length that looks like the reading of it will be a serious labor. A good guideline is if it is too heavy to hold up for bathtub reading. That is the size book I need for eight hours in the air. Somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic I need to have a serious interest in the protagonists’ life and enough pages to get me over the million more miles to go. My second book choice is something “fluffy.” It might be a quick read but it probably has comedic value and something in it that will redeem my mid-flight feelings of hatred toward everyone else on the plane. Selection of the puzzle book is also crucial. Never make the mistake of thinking you can write your sudoku or fill-it-in numbers into those little boxes in the middle of turbulence. If you want to write in it on a plane, go for the Gramma books. If the front cover doesn’t say “LARGE PRINT” in letters larger than two inches - step away. A bump will happen and that four will end up taking up three boxes, it is more or less guaranteed. Another important consideration in the selection of puzzles is neighbor elbows. The magazine is there for something to read while you wait to catch a flight attendant. It is whatever crap women’s magazine they sold at the airport. I don’t have the patience to wait for someone to walk by but I am incapable of not shutting the world around me out if I have a good book. Magazines are also great for when you need daydream time.

The final step in a happy flight is to fish out whatever food I have smuggled. I know better than to rely on the cat food the airlines love to serve (I’m looking at you Aer Lingus). I have successfully smuggled a ridiculous variety of food. Whether it was Irish flapjacks, gourmet German chocolates, or Russian crackers I have always managed to sneak something in my bag to ward off hunger. Fancy German chocolates are the reason one Israeli child is still alive after announcing for the 2391827439283rd time that he was “bored” and making the word bored sound like it had eight or more syllables. I know I can’t rely on the airline to serve me good food and even if they do I know they won’t necessarily package it in a way that I can open with my neuropathy hands so I always pack comfort food.

I still harbor some doubts that terrorists weren’t happy fliers who just happened to get stuck next to some of the children I have been stuck next to but I have figured out how to make flying more pleasant. It has been an ugly, sweaty, suffocating, freezing, uncomfortable and ridiculous process but I have finally found how to not tear my hair out on flights. I know what I look like bald and it’s worth a little extra work to prevent the tearing out of my hair, trust me.

10

every attempt at this week is rubbish

It is my opinion that all of my attempts belong in my recycle bin.

EDIT:

I’m sitting in the teacher’s room watching the marker circling “mistake” after “mistake.” I want to scream. Horrified doesn‘t begin to explain how I feel right now. “What was she even thinking?!” the teacher remarks as she finds another error and continues sweeping the marker in large circles around all of the offending material. I want to know what the teacher is thinking. She’s correcting the papers of five and six year old children. No child left behind? No paper left unmarked. Gone is any sense of accomplishment these children would have had in their papers. There is no reward for effort. You are either right or wrong. It’s disgusting. Inventive spelling is mocked, not praised. Verbs tenses that are used wrong receive rolls of eyes, with no consideration that the children are learning to apply some of the rules of the English language to their writing. It may not be correct but it’s obvious that they have learned something about their language and are trying it out.

Kindergarten in America is completely wrong for children. Five and six year olds should be learning from their play, not from worksheets. Assessing children so much is ridiculous. The absurdity of what children are expected to learn is just beyond words. Whoever made the decision about what we should be doing with children in kindergarten is obviously not acquainted with any children. They are children! Not miniature adults. If curriculum gets pushed down anymore every child I know will fail kindergarten. Never mind what the real childhood experts say - test them! Test them now!

When I was in kindergarten I went for half a day. Kindergarten was for getting used to school. It was an introduction to socializing and spending time away from Mommy. Now we’re teaching them geometry concepts. The have to write. They have to read. If they cannot accomplish these tasks to the satisfaction of their teacher then we think there is something wrong with them. Never mind how subjective the grading of some of these naz- I mean teachers is! Information is forced on them. Instead of children’s interest dictating the information we can teach it is something all planned out before anyone knows anything about the individual children. I understand that the world has changed and schools need to teach more to make up for what parents are no longer doing but it is ridiculous. Small children do not learn in the same way that older children do. The people who understand how and what children need to learn to best set the stage for learning later on are being ignored. On what planet does this make sense? You cannot dictate that they are going to learn in the way that you specify. And just because some idiot somewhere thinks a child should learn something doesn’t mean that they even can. They’re five years old! Why can we not accept that maybe they aren’t ready? Some children just aren’t ready for the things we push upon them. But instead of helping them developing the fine motor skills that they need to hold a pencil through different motor building activities like play dough and simple game we force them to write.

We’re creating children that are going to hate school. Reading and writing aren’t viewed as a fun way of expression and learning. They are becoming chores for them. Non-threatening and enjoyable experiences when they are young help them learn better when they are older. Just because we might be able to teach them these concepts at this age doesn’t mean that it is the best foundation for the rest of their lives. We pay so much attention to assessing and the end product that we lose track of the process. And we certainly lose track of the most important part of teaching: the students.

9

The George Mitchell Scholarship changed my life. My trip to Ireland in the Spring of 2010 changed the way I view myself and the way I view the world. I not only got to explore a gorgeous country but I also met amazing people. These people changed the way I view friendship and even the way I see myself. Being in a different country pushed the limits of what I could do and pushed me toward things I had never thought of doing. Ireland was, in many ways, a renewal for me. I was feeling frustrated with my energy level, out of place due to having been gone from college on my medical leave, and in a relationship that was stagnating. Getting on that plane for my first ever flight to move to another country may have seemed crazy but I just can't imagine what life would be like if I hadn't taken that leap of faith.

The first amazing thing that happened in Ireland was meeting Breige. I had known Breige online for years but we weren't especially close. When I made plans to meet up with her so she could show me around town and help me find places to buy pillows, a fan, and a heating pad I had no idea the friendship that was waiting for me. I was feeling overwhelmed and sitting in Mc Donald's on the corner of Patrick Street with my usual chocolate milkshake when I met my future best friend. We spent the rest of that day shopping and spent as much time together as we could while I was in Ireland. For two people who had never talked much it was like we couldn't shut up. It felt like we had known each other our entire lives. We never had awkward moments and for the first time in my life I could say I had a true friend. Having just lost a lot of my friends during my fight against cancer it felt good to be close friends with someone again. But more than that, I feel like I finally have a friendship that will last. Ocean or not we still talk almost every single day. She is the reason I recently bought speech to text software. I have far too much to say to rely on neuropathy hands to communicate with Breige! But on the topic of communication, I don't think I could ever communicate to anyone what a gift our friendship has been. Breige restored my faith in friendship. She showed me that true friends may be hard to find but they are worth the wait and worth traveling anywhere to find.

Ireland helped me out of a relationship that hadn't gone anywhere and wasn't going to.  I should have ended the relationship sooner but hadn't managed to. I've always hated breakups and kept putting it off. What should have been the straw that broke the camel's back didn't even push me over the edge. I guess in the back of my mind I knew as soon as I left the country it would be over. I remember saying goodbye to his cat and sobbing my heart out because I knew I wouldn't see her again. Corny as it sounds I suppose my heart knew what my mind hadn't realized yet. I was halfway over the Atlantic I realized that I could, and would, make the break. Knowing that I had won this once in a lifetime chance to study abroad and all that was ahead of me I realized how stupid it was for me to settle. Was he a horrible monster? No, but he also wasn't right for me. The breakup isn't the significant part of this story (although I do still miss that cat very much). Even though it is embarrassing to realize, it took being over the ocean and headed to another country to tip my self-esteem back where it should be. I've always been confident and gone after what I wanted but too much time wishing and wanting only to be healthy again had destroyed my image of myself. My confidence started rebuilding in economy class and kept growing in the months that followed.

I cannot talk about Ireland without talking about how it gave me an insane love for traveling. Each weekend I would hop on a bus and travel to a different part of the country. I explored the most amazing places. Each lovely little town was so rich with history. I also took a trip with my mother over to England and realized that ferry travel is not my thing. But London was so gorgeous and realizing that I could see all of these places I have read about and studied was incredible. The Tower of London took me breath away. I almost cried to be standing in the places that Anne Boleyn had stood. I love our country but the history in Europe is astonishing. I'm not sure how many small towns in Ireland I traveled to but there was always something worth seeing. Traveling around Ireland and England made me realize how much of the world there is to see and just how badly I want to see it. If I hadn't gone to Ireland I would have thought about going to Europe but I don't think I would have made the dreams a reality.

Thinking of all that Ireland gave me and continues to give me amazes me. I can barely scratch the surface of all the ways that going there changed my life. It was exactly what I needed at exactly the right time. It was exhausting but it was worth every second. I don't know what my life would be right now if I hadn't won that scholarship. I knew going there was a once in a lifetime chance but I had no idea how many positive changes it would make in my life.

8

The love of my life has Lyme disease. A Monday morning routine physical and booster shot vet visit for Snickers and his "cousin" Duke turned horrible. The vet tech told me without any fanfare and didn't seem overly concerned. She told me they were seeing a lot more of it this year. I went Crazy Mother on her and asked roughly eight thousand questions. Once I was pacified that it wasn't too serious and that the medication would take care of it I headed home. I was feeling rotten about my poor kiddo having any disease but feeling okay about his prognosis. Twice daily antibiotics - four for Duke and 2 for Snickers. I even managed to find a brilliant way to get pills into a pug and a yellow lab! [Leftover Velveeta shells make wonderful "pill pockets" and cost less than the Greenies treats that serve the same function.]

Wednesday morning I crawled out of bed and shuffled to the living room. The combination of sinus/ear/eye infections had left me exhausted even after a good night's sleep. Snickers was curled up on a blanket, sound asleep and I crawled in next to him and read and napped the afternoon away. It wasn't until around six when my mother got home that I realized there was a problem. A big problem. Snickers barked when he heard her car and started to get up. He immediately fell over. I thought he just had a foot caught in the blanket and didn't worry. Then when he tried to stand up again and fell over... I freaked out. Mum picked him up and set him on his feet. He collapsed again. By this point I was starting to cry and hyperventilate. Mum ran into the kitchen and got pepperoni. If pepperoni doesn't get his attention we could confirm a serious problem. He started dragging himself toward the kitchen with his front legs and his back legs were just dragging behind him. Words could never describe the cold fear that gripped me.

I dialed the emergency veterinary clinic but couldn't speak once the woman answered. I handed the phone to Mum and ran to pull on a pair of jeans. While Mum was getting directions I bundled my pugling up in his favorite blanket and tucked the toy his Dad just sent him in the blanket with him. He seemed out of it by this point but I wanted to give him whatever small comfort I could. The ride to the vet was awful. I put him on the seat next to me so I wouldn't be hurting his legs in any way. He looked so lost and confused I put my hand down for him to rest on. He fell into an uneasy sleep while tears ran down my face. I sang "You Are My Sunshine," I prayed, I kissed his sweet little face. Even when it was his crisis, his little body shaking with pain, my little man did what he has always done, he took care of his Mum. That fevery little pug tongue licked the tears off my face. This reminded me of all the time I had spent during my cancer treatment when it was just me and my pets and I had let myself cry. It never failed that Snick would lick my tears until it made me laugh. Thinking of this made me switch from prayer to pleading. "Please God, help my baby through this, I'm not me without my little dude. I couldn't take it if something happened to him. Please please please please please...."

Finally we were at the veterinary clinic. I bundled him in my arms and scurried in. Pretty sure I cut in front of another couple and their dog who were in line to buy food or something but at that moment nothing in the world existed but Snickers. I was a desperate woman with a hurting pug. They rushed him into an exam room. Bless his little heart, he was so brave. I filled out the paperwork on him while my heart pounded in my ears. I'm really not even sure what I wrote down. 99% of my attention was focused on Snick and keeping him from being too scared. The vet came in and checked him all over. Then my poor little man had to be put on the floor so she could see his legs. She held him up and checked to see which legs he would try to take pressure off of. By this point he wasn't putting any weight on his left front leg either. The vet was puzzled and I felt like throwing up. I was sweating buckets from the stress and I felt like there wasn't any air in the room. She concluded that it was most likely a delayed onset of the Lyme disease symptoms although she had never seen an animal start showing symptoms after they started the medication. Three shots and another prescription later we were sent home with instructions to call if the pain medicine didn't calm his trembling body.

I held him in my arms like a baby all the way home and when we got home I settled him on my lap. I scarfed my supper down and then held a container of wet cat food for him to nibble on. Thankfully he was interested in food again and he finished it. I ended up just listening to the movie that we had put on in an effort to distract me. I couldn't take my eyes off the sleeping bundle on my lap and in my arms. I kept checking his belly and feet to see how hot they were. He had stopped trembling but I was still afraid of the other, far scarier aspects of lyme disease. Kidney or heart failure? I get goosebumps even thinking about it.

Somewhere between holding him up on a "pee pad" so he wouldn't have to go outside on the slippery deck and sitting in the rocking chair nervously watching him all night... I realized something. I can handle crisis situations. After I was diagnosed with cancer I asked my Mum if she needed me to drive home. But something happening to my baby man? I can't handle it. I am reduced to hysterical sobs, ulcer pain, and panic beyond belief. Only now, with him next to me and his sleeping face on the edge of the laptop, can I start to relax. I have a lab against my left leg and a pug against my right. I'm pretty sure it's a million degrees in here and being in the middle of a dog sandwich is a bit warm but I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

7

Luis Fraile de la Fuente was one of a kind. He had a love for mischief that most of us sadly outgrow. I can picture that little smile and the twinkle in his eyes with perfect clarity. Those twinkling brown eyes with those crazy gray eyebrows above them. Though he was a stranger to me that July, I knew his eyes. He will live on through his grandson’s eyes and all of our memories.

****

In 1955 Rosario Calvo, better known as Sarito, became Rosario de le Fuente Calvo. And Luis? He became the happiest man on earth. I’ve never seen a love like the love between Luis and Sarito. Even after all those years of marriage the love between them was so strong. I cannot think of words that would do justice to the love they had. In almost all pictures taken of Luis you can bet that he is looking at his wife, just as proud as the day they were married. I loved looking at the photos from their wedding day. The years had barely touched them. And yet their house was filled with a lifetime of memories. Everywhere you looked was an example of something they had shared. Whether it was pictures of their children and grandchildren or souvenirs from every country you could think of filling shelves and display cases, you could tell their life together was one that was lived to the fullest.

 ****
I never managed to pay for anything when he was around. I desperately tried to purchase something, anything to repay him for his kindness. I was never fast enough. Once, when we were getting eis, I almost had him. My euros were up first! But the young man looked at me, then looked at him - and took his money. And of course there was my disastrous attempt and sneaking inside the restaurant that day on our trip to Rüdesheim. It would figure the one time I had a chance to pull the waitress aside she would be the one person I met who didn’t speak a word of English. I remember how everyone laughed as I slunk back outside behind her and listened to her tell everyone that I had tried to give her money and she had no idea what I was saying!


****
My favorite story about Luis revolves around his ever-present love of mischief. His work for the embassy took him back and forth between Spain and Germany. The border in-between being, of course, France.  This posed an interesting problem for a man who wanted to stock-up on Spanish sherry but was only allowed two bottles at a time over the border. Somewhere along the line he decided to make a bit more room in his car. Since he had that all important sticker to let you cruise through the border without any need for inspection he decided to get creative. Luis is the only man I know who would rip out the stuffing of their car’s backseat to make room to hide his booze. I can easily picture how he must have laughed each time he cleared the border with crates and crates of alcohol tucked neatly in his backseat.
****
My favorite memory of him is from our trip to Rüdesheim. I still don’t have the pictures from his camera as he snapped boatloads of pictures of me and Christian but I have the ones he took on mine. I still remember trying not to laugh as I posed with Christian in front of Niederwalddenkmal. I was so impressed with it I wanted a picture of me standing with my gorgeous German with it in the background. I relayed that request to Luis through Christian. He had us check it to make sure it was okay the first time he handed the camera back. I had to laugh. We were standing in front of one of the symbols of Germany. A ten and a half meters tall monument was behind us and what did he take a picture of? Just us. When Christian had him take another it was so hard not to crack up. It was the sweetest thing. He was baffled by why we would want anything other than a close-up of us. And you know what? I think that is part of the secret to happiness. Luis knew what was really important.

****

He was the first person I saw when I arrived in Germany. In a month he became more to me than people I’ve known since birth. I love him so much. I am so glad I got to meet him. His life didn’t last much longer after the summer I visited. Pneumonia came and stole a 78 year old man who had previously been as healthy and energetic as any middle-aged person I knew, perhaps more so. His death shattered the hearts of everyone who knew and loved him. Luis Fraile de la Fuente was not actually “Luis” to me. He was my Opa. I was blessed to “adopt” him through Christian. He was the grandfather I had always wished for.

I love learning. I have little interest in things that aren’t educational in some way.  My favorite thing to do is read. My goal is a minimum of 100 books a year. I even read textbooks for fun. If I’m watching TV you can bet it’s a documentary. I’m even studying to become a teacher myself. Learning and teaching are what make me tick. When thinking about my education several experiences come to mind.

I dropped out of public school when I was in 7th grade. The reason was simple. I was painfully bored. I was in an advanced reading class but all the teacher did was pop Disney movies into the VCR so he could browse websites about fishing. Which, since I’m discussing boredom, fishing websites also seem painfully boring but hey, that’s just me! Every single day I would raise my hand, walk to the front of the room, and excuse myself. I asked to leave reading class so I could go sit in the library and read whatever book I was in the middle of on that day. Yes, I left reading so that I could read. Go figure. That turned out to be just the tip of the iceberg when it came to the quality of education in Bucksport middle school that year. In deciding to drop out of public school I learned so much. I learned that having a say in my curriculum was like Christmas. I did in-depth studies on historical people that interested me. I decided to do a Bible study because as a home schooled kid it was expected of me and religion had always interested me. I did the essential courses like math but I had so much more time to do things that I was passionate about. The gift of more time was a powerful learning tool.

Having the chance to study in Ireland was such a blessing. It was the people and the travel that made the memories so special but there are certain parts of the formal education that I’ll never forget. For example, the night I spent studying my Irish Law notes until I thought my eyes were going to bleed. I remember sitting on the cold floor of the apartment bathroom at 4am so I would have enough room and light to study all of the different papers I had accumulated that semester. I was in such a panic. What was I thinking to take that class? Legalese in my own country is hard enough - what possessed me to take what my Irish classmates considered their most difficult course? When the morning of the final exam came I discovered that the school had failed to provide me with a scribe. Four complex essays to write, neuropathy crippled hands, and no one to help. Even worse, I had been planning to walk over with the scribe to the building where the testing was held and now I had no idea where I was supposed to go. Eventually one of the college staff members walked by and asked why I was crying. The testing center was called and I was brought over. With a monkey-grip on my pen I only managed to complete two and a half essays. But with those 2.5 essays? I got the highest score in the class and a professor who said she will gladly give me a glowing reference if I want to go into law. I found out later that to do well they expect you to score around 40%. It’s a good thing someone told me or else I would have fainted when I saw my grades for my semester abroad.

I can’t talk about education without mentioning the wonderful children I help teach three days a week. I’m a helper in the kindergarten classroom and my time there is an absolute joy. It’s a crying shame that I’m doubtful about my ability to get a job in the field once I have my degree. Sadly teaching jobs are getting cut and within my town we’re going to undergo even more budget cuts in the school. The children’s passion for learning and their relentless curiosity energizes me. They are absolutely exhausting so it’s a good thing that something gives me energy! Whether they are making me laugh or want to cry, they remind me what is really important. In return, I teach them foundational things like math and reading. Each minute in a kindergarten classroom can contain frustration, love, humor, and something I can only describe as a type of magic that only children have. Just last week I listened to a 6 year old telling a 5 year old all about rainbows and the sun. And these were not Magic School Bus descriptions! These were descriptions that I challenge most EMCC students to rival. She can’t tie her shoes but wow does she have an amazing scientific mind! On the other side of the coin, yesterday I had to sit down with a student and explain that the toy fruit from the household dramatic play area need to stay outside of our clothing. I never thought I would have to address inappropriate usage of oranges and that, “Lookit my boobies!” wasn’t something we said in kindergarten. It’s fun and it’s always something new. Which is, of course, the best part of learning.

This May I will finally graduate from Eastern Maine Community College. It’s taken me far too many years to compete a two year degree but I console myself with reminders of how much else I have done in that time. I’m definitely ready to graduate and move on though. My first year at EMCC was a blast. I had friends my own age and the classes seemed to fly by. Every time I drive by the cheapest Chinese restaurant in town I think of my first year in college. We would all drive over after our 7pm classes got out and make the most of our money. I don’t think I ever left there without a stomachache from the combination of eating until I felt like I was going to burst and laughing too much. After my medical leave school became incredibly tiring for me. When I first came back everyone was very supportive but the more hair I grow, the more my teachers think I am back to normal. It’s impossible to explain that I will never be back to the level of energy I once was at. A lot of my classes seem like a giant blur. My memory immediately after chemotherapy was terrible but I insisted on going back because college meant so much to me. Lately it just means fatigue. I’m freaked out and I just want my diploma.

I’m sad that I’m at a point where education has become a drag. I desperately want my energy back so that learning can become fun again and not something that stresses me out so much. I think that getting my diploma may help because I will finally have something to show for my efforts. I’m also hoping that going to the University of Maine in the fall will be the change I need to refresh my attitude towards college. I’ve decided to branch out and hopefully get a degree that will be useful to me in charity work and I’m leaning toward majoring in Communications. At the very least I can say that I’m incredibly excited to minor in German. That is at least a step back in the right direction towards joy in my education.

Our anniversary is next month. Four years of this crazy relationship.  You’re mad and you want to give up. I know that. You’ve made that abundantly clear. But, I’m not going to give up on you. I know I’ve cursed you out over the years and said horrible things but I didn’t mean them. I woke up every hour last night and hated you so much. Yet another trip to the fridge in the middle of the night to try to dull the pain. You have caused me so much pain. I can’t think about anything but you when you hurt me and yet I callously forget all that you have sacrificed when you’re not causing me pain. So I want to take this opportunity to thank you.

I could never replace you. There will never be another you. I don’t know what I would have done without you. You did what others could never do. You know that! You know that they left. They couldn’t do their jobs. They were poison and they tried to get to you but you were too strong for that. You not only stayed strong but you stepped in and filled the void. For almost four years you have carried me and shielded me from their absence the best that you could. I appreciate it, I really do. You’ve given me support for so long. It’s too easy to forget that while you may cause me pain, you also prevent it. You have kept me from so much.

My shame over showing you to people embarrasses me. It’s not you though, it’s the neighborhood. The last boyfriend I had didn’t appreciate you but this one does. Yes he flinched when he saw you. Yes he was scared. But he took photos of you that night in Ireland. Yes yes, you can say that that was only about me. And I know you’re right but I bet he could sketch you from memory. Christian realizes how much I need you and how much I love you. I’m sorry that I don’t shout it from the rooftops. But, at least I don’t have to be embarrassed anymore. He’ll certainly be mad when he gets off his plane and hears about your recent behavior but he’ll get over it. So will I.

That’s why I need you to stay. Please stop this insanity. You’re beautiful. I’ll continue to take care of you. I can even do better. What more can I do? What can I buy you? What do you need? I can’t accept your leaving. I hope that isn’t really what this fight is about. I know that I cut you down. This relationship is brittle. I wish things weren’t so fragile. But darling, even when you’re half of what you used to be you’re still more than I ever expected possible.

Tonight I’m going to close my eyes and pray for you. I’ll wash my hair tonight and we’ll sleep on any decisions. Tomorrow if you’re still angry I’ll do what needs to be done. We’ll go to the hospital if that’s what you need. We’ll get more drugs for you. We’ll make adjustments. I’ll get a phone number for someone local and find someone who can make you more comfortable. We don’t even have to drive to Boston. We’ll make it through this. I know that I can’t keep you forever but I’m not willing to give up on you yet. I love you. Please get better. I love you so much Hero Tooth.

get off your "high" horse

There is a commonly held belief about having cancer that drives me insane. I hate it. Every time I hear someone talking about it I want to scream. And yet, it never fails, in any class whether it is ethics, speech, or just a class where the discussion can circle around to it - someone is going to say it. It is always said with the utmost conviction and the last time it came up and I politely tried to "myth bust" I was told that I had done something wrong. They had the facts right and me, the person who underwent cancer treatments, had it wrong.  I didn't do it right apparently. I wish that people would get off their "high" horse. Yeah, I had cancer. Yeah, I've smoked pot. I'm here to report back that the only thing it did for me is waste time that could have been spent on the couch half-watching TV or perhaps counting ceiling tiles (arguably things that one does after smoking pot and not instead of). It did not cure my cancer. It did not in any way shape or form help alleviate any of the symptoms and side effects I was suffering from. I wish that it was the drug that people want it to be. I wish I could have had relief. But I didn't and that, surprise surprise, isn't uncommon among cancer patients.

We decided to see what pot would do for me after my doctors suggested it as a "worth a try since we've done everything else" kind of thing. I was no longer eating and had been on a liquid diet for about two months. Because I am so blessed I  happen to be allergic to most of the medications they give you during chemotherapy to treat nausea. I learned this the hard way after several allergic reactions during treatment. The hope was that it might entice me to eat and help my constant nausea. As it stood there were only two medications that I could take for nausea and two is definitely not enough. So I figured, why not?

After acquiring some Vermont homegrown from an extended relative, we set about preparing the bathroom for this adventure. This involved close inspection of all the ventilation fans in the bathroom and towels being tucked around them and the bottom of the door. It also involved my father rolling his eyes and going out on the balcony until we were done. Even at my doctor's suggestion my father wasn't going to endorse something illegal. Those darn substance abuse counselor dads! My Mum, the nurse and woman who had spent roughly eight million hours holding my head while I vomited and another eight million trying to get me to consume food to vomit up later, was all in. My brother thought that it was too funny to pass up. He's a police officer and sat on the edge of the tub the whole time with a towel over his face so that he wouldn't breathe anything in but I don't think he would have missed it for the world.

My relative, in his infinite wisdom, had decided that giving me marijuana and a pipe would be the way to go. I was 20 years old and had never smoked anything in my life. I also had the added complication of not having a sinus. My surgery, in a nutshell, means that my right nostril is simply open down all the way through the opening that is the roof of my mouth. I can't use straws, I hold my breath to blow my nose, etc. 

So we settled in. I sat on the floor, Mum on the toilet seat, and my brother perched on the edge of the tub. I stared at the pipe in bewilderment. Mum realized she needed to show me how it was done. Then it was passed back to me. I tried and the smoke went right out my nose in spite of the cries to, "Pull it to your lungs! Hold it in!" Mum showed me again. I tried again and again did the straight out my nose routine. I realized I had to do something to keep it from escaping through my sinus. This time after Mum handed it back to me I plugged my right nostril with one finger while holding the pipe with my other fingers.  It's a small wonder I didn't burn myself with the way I was balancing that pipe.

Okay! That worked much better. My lungs were on fire! My lungs were on fire! I started coughing like it was my job. With tears streaming down my face I asked what on earth the fuss was all about. It went something like, "What -hack hack hack hack- is -hack hack hack hack- wrong - hack hack gag gag - with -gag choke hack- people? This.... is..... so -cough- gross!"

I waited a few minutes to recoop and didn't think I had done it properly so I tried again. This attempt was followed by, "IT HURTS! IT BURNS!" and coughing so hard my eyeballs nearly fell out of my head. As soon as I could stop coughing I would try again. It felt like I was dying when I held that smoke in my lungs but I was determined to make sure I did it right so it would work.
One more try and I was going to give up. I was starting to think if this was what I had to do to feel good than it wasn't worth it.  I did my crazy finger grip on the pipe and plugged my nose and held it in my lungs for what felt like three years. It was probably closer to three seconds. This time it burned so bad I had to jump up and lean over the sink and heave while I coughed.

Once I was done dry heaving I did what every sophisticated woman of the world does after smoking pot. I pulled out my prosthesis and then shouted unintelligible profanities as I frantically brushed my teeth. Now, I will grant you that someone looking at me cross-eyed made me nauseous that year but the taste of pot is not something that anyone can possibly enjoy. I have never tried it but it's what I imagine cat urine must taste like.
So pot didn't cure my cancer. I didn't get the munchies. I didn't even get any relief from my nausea.  I resent being told that pot is a wonder drug for cancer. It may work for some patients but among all of my survivor friends I only know one person who managed to get any relief whatsoever.

 It wasn't an entire bust though. I did gain a story that will last a lifetime. While I happen to be a pot smoker failure - my Mum? She's a champ. In teaching her daughter how to smoke pot we discovered that my Mum doesn't even cough! She is what you could call a natural! She spent the next four hours in the bathroom because she was too embarrassed for her children to see that she accidentally got high. I thought it was great that my hardworking and overstressed nurse got to take a vacation. Marijuana transformed my Boston apartment's shower into the "rain forest."  It sounded like quite the trip. I'm really quite jealous - all pot gave me was a funny taste in my mouth and a huge stain on the top of my first obturator.

4 - childhood

I took my job as Dad's necktie helper very seriously. I would deliberate for long periods of time on which crazy pattern he should wear that day. Then, with complete seriousness I would tie his necktie. It was an interesting skill for a nine year old girl to have but it has served me well helping boyfriends over the years. But, back to that night and my important task. I selected a money print tie that my grandmother had purchased for my Dad on our recent trip to Washington, D.C. I thought it suited the importance of a Mason meeting. Loony Toons could wait until a workday. I was promised a hug and a kiss when he came home that night after I was sleeping and skipped off to go play The Lava Game with my brother.

Somewhere in the middle of my brother accusing me of having touched the floor in my daring leap to the couch from the chair, we heard a knock on the door. I ran and hid behind the kitchen island while my brother peeked through the door to see who was there. I was to relay the message of who it was to my Mum who had been vacuuming the house in her slip and was now hiding in the bathroom wondering who was knocking at such a late hour. It was "Uncle Wayne" aka my brother's best friend's father so my brother, naturally, let him in. I'm pretty sure my Mum had a stroke. I didn't understand it (still don't sometimes) but my Mum is very particular about her appearance. Wayne sent us off to the other room but we hung around the door frame and tried to figure out what was going on.

He kept knocking on the bathroom door and murmuring something to my mother. Suddenly she opened the door. I realized with absolute clarity that something was very,  very wrong if my Mum had just been convinced to open the door. She had added an oversized blue and white checked Arizona Jeans fleece to her outfit of slippers and a slip. They didn't tell us kids anything that night but I knew enough to know that my Mum wearing that in front of someone that she had not married or given birth to spelled trouble. We were hurried into bed and given surprisingly tight hugs as my Mum rushed out the door. I was so confused and frightened that I pulled my entire night-time book supply from underneath my bed into my tent-bed with me. Armed with a flashlight and piles of paperbacks, I slept only a few hours that night.

The next morning my brother woke me up and, still sleepy, I went down to the kitchen for breakfast. I could not believe my eyes when I saw Wayne standing there behind the kitchen island. I glared at him and stalked out of the room. Everything from the night before came rushing back to me. Why hadn't my Dad come home and given me my goodnight kiss? Where did my Mum go? Then, Wayne made a mistake he would regret for years to come. He called me back into the room. "Hey Katie," he said with a cheerful smile. I greeted him with all the hatred a nine year old can muster, my hands on my hips, eyes narrowed. I did not bother asking what he wanted.  "You're cute when you're mad." It would take years before my bizarre distrust of this man would be vindicated but from that moment on, I loathed him. I was a painfully shy and seriously scared kid and I was trying to be fearsome. Cute! How dare he?! He drove us to school and I couldn't get away fast enough.


The hours dragged by before my Mum finally came and picked us up. "Daddy had an accident."
My father had been hit head-on during the previous night's snowstorm. Although he was many miles from our house when it happened he was hit by our next door neighbor. If not for the plow on the front of his truck, my father wouldn't have made it. The other man, very intoxicated, was not wearing his seatbelt and flew through the windshield of his vehicle and landed on the other side of the road. He only recently died but never woke from his coma.

Everyone was fussing over me at the hospital. It was all a blur of concerned voices and sympathetic faces. I kept insisting on seeing my father. The nurses and my parents friends all thought that it was a bad idea. My father, while alive, had enjoyed the feeling of a steering wheel shoved into half of his face. The right side of his face had not fared well. I didn't care what they told me. I wanted to kiss my father. I was not going to let another night pass without kissing my Dad. It was becoming clear that I would have to leave and I was NOT going to go without seeing my Daddy. I was an awkward and quiet child but I was as stubborn as they come. I pleaded with my Mum, "I don't care what he looks like. It won't scare me. He's still Daddy and I need to kiss him." Nothing would have changed my mind. My Mum, bless her, knew that. So in I went.
Initially, I was just relieved to be let into my Dad's room. I had been starting to get really worried that I wouldn't be allowed in and I was incredibly grateful just to make it through the door. I marched over to my Dad's bedside. I was a kid on a mission.  I still remember how happy he was to see me. I wasn't scared or grossed out. Looking at the photographs now, I wonder how it was that I wasn't bothered by seeing my father's face smashed in. He's had surgeries and some of the bones in his face were replaced with metal so now he looks quite normal again but seeing the pictures it is hard to believe that I wasn't scared out of my wits.

Once I had nestled myself at my Dad's side and found a place to cuddle in amongst the tubes and IV, I was presented with an interesting challenge. I was there and with my Dad but I had no idea where I could put a kiss. Any space that wasn't covered with bandage was swollen or bloody or injured in some way. I examined his face for the longest time, informing him of my problem as I studied him. Finally I found the perfect place. One teeny tiny spot, just big enough and not a bit bigger, for his nine year old daughter to plant his goodnight kiss.


EDIT:

I took my job as Dad's necktie helper very seriously. I would deliberate for long periods of time on which crazy pattern he should wear that day. Then, with complete seriousness I would tie his necktie. It was an interesting skill for a nine year old girl to have but it has served me well helping boyfriends over the years. But, back to that night and my important task. I selected a money print tie that my grandmother had purchased for my Dad on our recent trip to Washington, D.C. I thought it suited the importance of a Mason meeting. Loony Toons could wait until a workday. I was promised a hug and a kiss when he came home that night after I was sleeping and skipped off to go play The Lava Game with my brother.

Somewhere in the middle of my brother accusing me of having touched the floor in my daring leap to the couch from the chair, we heard a knock on the door. I ran and hid behind the kitchen island while my brother peeked through the door to see who was there. I was to relay the message of who it was to my Mum who had been vacuuming the house in her slip and was now hiding in the bathroom wondering who was knocking at such a late hour. It was "Uncle Wayne" aka my brother's best friend's father so my brother, naturally, let him in. I'm pretty sure my Mum had a stroke. I didn't understand it (still don't sometimes) but my Mum is very particular about her appearance. Wayne sent us off to the other room but we hung around the door frame and tried to figure out what was going on.

He kept knocking on the bathroom door and murmuring something to my mother. Suddenly she opened the door. I realized with absolute clarity that something was very,  very wrong if my Mum had just been convinced to open the door. She had added an oversized blue and white checked Arizona Jeans fleece to her outfit of slippers and a slip. They didn't tell us kids anything that night but I knew enough to know that my Mum wearing that in front of someone that she had not married or given birth to spelled trouble. We were hurried into bed and given surprisingly tight hugs as my Mum rushed out the door. I was so confused and frightened that I pulled my entire night-time book supply from underneath my bed into my tent-bed with me. Armed with a flashlight and piles of paperbacks, I slept only a few hours that night.

The next morning my brother woke me up and, still sleepy, I went down to the kitchen for breakfast. I could not believe my eyes when I saw Wayne standing there behind the kitchen island. I glared at him and stalked out of the room. Everything from the night before came rushing back to me. Why hadn't my Dad come home and given me my goodnight kiss? Where did my Mum go? Then, Wayne gave me a line I still hate to hear. He called me back into the room. "Hey Katie," he said with a cheerful smile. I greeted him with all the hatred a nine year old can muster, my hands on my hips, eyes narrowed. I did not bother asking what he wanted.  "You're cute when you're mad." I was a painfully shy and seriously scared kid and I was trying to be fearsome. Cute! How dare he?! He drove us to school and I couldn't get away fast enough.

The hours dragged by before my Mum finally came and picked us up. "Daddy had an accident."

My father had been hit head-on during the previous night's snowstorm. Although he was many miles from our house when it happened he was hit by our next door neighbor. If not for the plow on the front of his truck, my father wouldn't have made it. The other man was very intoxicated and flew through the windshield of his vehicle and landed on the other side of the road. The price he paid for not wearing a seatbelt was a coma and then death.

Everyone was fussing over me at the hospital. It was all a blur of concerned voices and sympathetic faces. I kept insisting on seeing my father. The nurses and my parents friends all thought that it was a bad idea. My father, while alive, had enjoyed the feeling of a steering wheel shoved into half of his face. The right side of his face had not fared well. I didn't care what they told me. I wanted to kiss my father. I was not going to let another night pass without kissing my Dad. It was becoming clear that I would have to leave and I was NOT going to go without seeing my Daddy. I was an awkward and quiet child but I was as stubborn as they come. I pleaded with my Mum, "I don't care what he looks like. It won't scare me. He's still Daddy and I need to kiss him." Nothing would have changed my mind. My Mum, bless her, knew that. So in I went.
Initially, I was just relieved to be let into my Dad's room. I had been starting to get really worried that I wouldn't be allowed in and I was incredibly grateful just to make it through the door. I marched over to my Dad's bedside. I was a kid on a mission.  I still remember how happy he was to see me. I wasn't scared or grossed out. Looking at the photographs now, I wonder how it was that I wasn't bothered by seeing my father's face smashed in. He's had surgeries and some of the bones in his face were replaced with metal so now he looks quite normal again but seeing the pictures it is hard to believe that I wasn't scared out of my wits.

Once I had nestled myself at my Dad's side and found a place to cuddle in amongst the tubes and IV, I was presented with an interesting challenge. I was there and with my Dad but I had no idea where I could put a kiss. Any space that wasn't covered with bandage was swollen or bloody or injured in some way. I examined his face for the longest time, informing him of my problem as I studied him. Finally I found the perfect place. One teeny tiny spot, just big enough and not a bit bigger, for his nine year old daughter to plant his goodnight kiss.

My Dad still wears that money design tie. Two generations of stain removing women couldn't remove all of the blood from it but he wears it anyway. It's his reminder of how lucky he was to have that plow on his truck. It's my reminder of how much I love my Dad and to never take him for granted.

3 Travel

My knees were shaking from the combination of a nine hour flight and my nerves. I looked around desperately for something recognizable to me. As if I could find something comforting among the people loudly speaking German and the group of Japanese tourists next to me. I finally made my way to the baggage claim. Why did every single person on this flight have the same shade of green suitcase as mine? After spending about fifteen minutes watching the suitcases go by and starting to panic, I finally realized I was standing in the wrong place. But, once I had my bag I wasn't sure that I wanted to have it. I had to make my way to my first moment of truth. I was being picked up by my boyfriend's Mum and sister and meeting them for the first time.

The first person I saw was the man I grew to claim as my Opa. Then I saw my new sister and my boyfriend's Mum. I'm pretty sure I hugged them and managed a smile that came out as more of a grimace. I'm also fairly certain that I was able to refrain from hysterical nervous laughter. Added together, I counted that as a win.  I was so terrified and sleep deprived I felt like my surroundings had been set to spin. In an airport in a foreign country you don't need help becoming disoriented but every last detail piled up. Lara was speaking English to me and then German to her mother. Rosa (my boyfriend's Mum) was speaking German to Lara, occassional English to me, and Spanish to her father. My German was limited, my Spanish was rusty, and frankly, 6am on the other side of the world when my head wanted to think it was midnight and time to crawl in bed... well, that was making me unable to speak English. Not only did I not know where I was, I couldn't understand a bloody thing that was being said.

That airport is gigantic. No, gigantic doesn't even come close enough to describing it. They are not kidding when they call it an "airport city." And oh blessed airplane airconditioning I was so sorry to leave you! I would of course travel to Germany in the middle of one of their hottest summers. As soon as we started walking down the eight thousand mile hallway to find what level of hell they had parked on I had two very urgent questions. My first question was, "Who the hell packed my suitcase with all this crap?" and the second question was, "Am I sweating as much as I think I am?" The answers were of course "You did you idiot," and "No, not unless I am leaving puddles behind me." I did check and there did not appear to be puddles behind me so I think I was safe. Stench on the other hand, could have been questionable.
I was pondering if anyone would notice if I leaned on my suitcase to dry-heave for a moment when I had another question pop into my head. How on earth do you tell a 78 year old man that you can pull your own suitcase? Two years of of Spanish in high school and I'm trying to prevent my new grandfather from having a heart attack and all I can remember how to say is "shampoo." Who says you don't learn anything in high school? Sadly I cannot blame high school for my inability to tell Rosa in German, "I'm delighted to meet you but so nervous and jetlagged I think I may throw up." It's a pity.

We finally made it to an elevator. But oh, they forgot to pay for parking so off they went. I remained by the elevator and cooked in the heat while I waited. When they returned and we made our way through the vehicles I started to feel like I was going to pass out. "NOT NOW! NOT NOW! NOT NOW! NOT NOW!" I screamed to my brain. I don't know if it was my prayers, the verbal assault I had given my brain, or a combination but somehow I made it to the vehicle. Ever since last year at about this time I have become a tremendous fainter and I have no idea how I managed to get through the heat and nerves that wanted to pull me down that day. If I had known what was about to happen I think I would have opted to faint. We were on the 11th (or 1011th?) floor of a garage and began what felt as a descent into hell. I'm pretty sure going down that ramp involves completely cutting your wheel. It is a one-way spiral of puke. If I had seen a similiar setup on a rollercoaster when I was nine I would have jumped for joy. As a 23 year old in an SUV who already feels like throwing up... I almost peed myself. If I hadn't just gotten off a nine hour flight that was determined to feed the passengers meals that resembled dog food -  I would have vomited. My frustration at Lufthansa food ended the second I started blessing my empty stomach. While Lara and her mother bickered about something in German I put my head down on my lap and I will admit it, dry heaved. Thankfully I am a puking professional and managed to retch without much noise. I am confident about this because I feel they would have teased me by now.

I don't think the sun has ever been as bright as it was that morning. Fishing out my sunglasses from my carry-on would have made far too much sense so I simply squinted at my surroundings. I was so relieved to see so much countryside. Wheat fields have never looked as beautiful as they did to this country girl who was terrified her boyfriend would find Maine too rural. After dropping Opa off at his darling little house with the front lawn covered in gnomes and getting my first (of many!) Oma hugs, we finally were within minutes of my boyfriend's house.  I was anxious to get settled in. Christian hadn't gone to the airport because he had a final that he needed to take but had promised to be back as soon as possible.

I stared in wonder at the two dozen little brown rabbits that dashed across the lawn in front of me as I started toward the house. I thought I was hallucinating. Good job Katie, some people see purple elephants and all you can conjure up are little itty bitty bunnies! I later found out that these small rabbits are Germany's pest animal (and I would see them and photograph them everywhere) but man, nothing compares to the confusion I felt at that moment. But then I was finally inside. I was fussed and fretted over but only requested a glass of water to take my medicine with. They walked me downstairs and I collapsed on the bed.  The window was opened and the lights were shut off as they left me to nap. Unsuspecting, I took a big gulp of water as I reached for my pills. "Poison!" my brain informed me as I desperately looked for a place to spit it out. I hadn't specified that I wanted "plain water" so I had been given a lovely glass of sparkling water. My poor American mouth had never had water's salty and carbonated friend before. I found Christian's pitcher of normal water and washed away the evil aftertaste. Finally I grabbed a pillow and stretched out for my nap. I looked up at the ceiling for a moment before I closed my eyes. "I love you Kathryn," the post-it note said. "You'd better!" I thought as I grinned and rolled over, trying once again not to throw up.

2

Pitiful but shrill little meows made us all jump. It was my brother's birthday and we were standing in the garage that's been made in part of our barn. My eyes were starting to glaze over with all of the car talk when I heard those little cries. I called out, "Here kitty kitty" or something equally inane and suddenly a black kitten came wobbling down the stairs from the hayloft. As soon as I crouched down he came over and circled around me. I reached my hand out and he immediately started nuzzling me. As soon as I started petting him he began to purr. It was not a regular soft little cat purr. He had a full on diesel engine power purr.

Emotions flooded me as I realized that this kitten was meant to own me. Some people think they own their cats but I've had cats all my life and I know the truth. I will sit in a different chair to avoid making them move and I've certainly spent many nights sleeping in awkward positions because I didn't want to move one of my fur-kids. I think the most important part of that black kitten and indeed, all of my animals is not that I rescued them. The truth is that they rescue me.

I am an unstoppable stray feeder. I am constantly putting dishes out for any animals that I see. I'm also one of those people who will carry a mouse outside and relocate them instead of poisoning them or setting traps. I know that I am not meant to own most of these animals. But when I picked up the starving little kitten I knew that we were supposed to be together. Why I had that thought is beyond me. I was living in an apartment at my parents house with 2 cats, 1 dog, 5 birds, and fish. I certainly didn't have room for anymore "children." I was also discussing moving in with my at the time boyfriend who already had a cat and was desperately trying to convince me that I should leave my pets with my parents. Why I knew that this cat would become mine, I just don't know.

My boyfriend was trying to find an ally in any of the people at the barn. In spite of the fact that the kitten's head was a thousand times bigger than his emaciated body he kept stating that he was "fine" and that I should leave him alone. I ran my fingers over his tiny body with his large frame that was stretched tight from his obvious lack of food. The smell of skunk was nearly suffocating but nobody else seemed to notice it was coming from the new love of my life.
A quick look determined he was male and I started thinking of names as I put him on the ground. "If he'll follow me to the house I'm going to at least feed him," I said, very aware of how unpopular this decision was with my boyfriend. But it was not possible for me to care about his opinion any less than I did at that moment. And sure enough, the scrawny little guy that would soon be dubbed Professor Oliver Catkins took off after me, purr at full speed, down to the house. The first bowl of food I gave him disappeared in about ten seconds. I've never seen anything eat with as much hunger. The vet ended up estimating that he was eight months old so he'd been hunting to feed himself for a while but obviously wasn't successful enough to meet the caloric needs of a growing cat.

By the time I was done feeding him and giving him water it was time for board games. But when I shut the bathroom door Oliver panicked. I don't know if it was losing sight of me after I had given him all that food or if it was because someone had already so callously closed a door on him when they threw him away as a kitten. Something in him snapped though. His desperate pleas didn't go long before they were answered. I wrapped him up in a small blanket and cuddled him on my lap. In less than two minutes he was sound asleep. I don't think anyone could have woken him up. I alternated between holding him like a baby and sitting him on my lap. I soon realized how deep his sleep was and my family passed him around. He slept on, oblivious to our murmurs of how adorable his little kitty sleep/coma was. The rag-doll like cuddles were what sealed the deal for my Mum.

I fell in love when I first held him. I fell in love again when he woke up later that evening, spotted my pug, and instantly decided that happiness was snuggling Snickers. Now the sight of black and fawn fur snuggled together is a common thing at my house. My dream of having fur-kids that snuggle has come true. Like a baby duck, Oliver decided that he needed to imprint on something. I now have a cat that rolls over for belly scratches and plays fetch. And he thinks his big brother is the creator of all things catnip or pepperoni.

I've had him for one year, four months, and thirteen days. Whether he is waltzing across my keyboard as I try to write or headbutting me awake at 3am - I am utterly devoted. I often wonder how many people take as much comfort from their animals as I do. I don't need Valium, I have cats. That same sweet power purr of the my newest family member still makes me smile, just like it did the very first day we met.

Nature

Nature meant the most to me when I realize how much I had taken it for granted. It was, I discovered, like my health and having my family around constantly, something I didn't think about how much I loved until it wasn't there. The apartment in Boston was gorgeous. Two bedrooms on the third floor of a building with the most beautiful stained glass windows in the hallway. It was also however, in a city and a few blocks to the nearest park. And, as we discovered much to my pug's horror, a large parking lot away to the nearest patch of grass. Snickers the pug, a dog of high standards, held out on even the most urgent of bathroom trips and refused to poop on pavement. I can't say as I blamed him.

Although our apartment had all the comforts of home it lacked something critical. Lucky for me, My Mum had anticipated this need. Soon after we moved in we filled our little balcony with potted plants and flowers. A homemade sign from my grandfather reading "Katie's Garden" was placed in the front of the array of pots. Any hours I had free (and during which I was able to sit up) were spent in that little garden. Looking at the pictures now I realize how comical it was. All of the empty balconies that were used only for setting empty bottles or spare things on were in sharp contrast to my beautiful garden three stories up. You saw a blank building and then our apartment's explosion of greenery. This is how we earned the title, "Flower People" among all of the people in our building who knew English as their second or third language (every apartment but one other than us). I was so grateful for those plants. They took me back to where I needed to be. When at home in Maine during my treatment I found my peace by stretching out on the lawn in the middle of my Mum's expansive flower garden. Those potted plants brought that world to me.

To me, the most exquisite nature in Boston is the Healing Garden at Mass General's Yawkey Building. It was as if someone with a budget far larger than mine had seen the need for nature in the lives of cancer patients and made it a gorgeous reality. Eight floors up in the middle of Boston and the middle of the mini-city that is the Mass General Hospital campus was an unbelievable garden. It was a long walk from the elevators down the sterile hallways to get to the Healing Garden. The ramp going up to the room was so gradual that it almost felt like a transition time to prepare yourself for what lay behind the doors at the top.

For all the memories that seem to not exist due to the magical effect of IV Ativan... I can still remember the Healing Garden perfectly. It seems like that would only make sense because I spent at least part of most days there, but other parts of my life have been completely forgotten. It's as if months of my life never even happened. Considering how those months went, it is a blessing really, but it's still unnerving. But every inch of that sunroom and garden feel like they are burned into my brain. When we go for checkups I still love to visit.
Immediately when you walk in you can pick a smooth stone ("worry stones") out of a pot and sign the guestbook. My Dad has an entire collection of Healing Garden stones because I always made sure I had a "good one" to give him for the weekends when he visited. My best find was the one that resembled a heart. A slightly misshapen heart, but still, a heart. Even remembering the perfection of that room overwhelms me. It is green everywhere you look. The contrast of that room with all of the other rooms in that building made my knees buckle on more than one occasion. I felt as if the room almost spoke to me, "Go ahead. You can relax here. Breathe. Rest."

The dark and shiny wood of the bench in the sun room that I always sought out was certainly not the most comfortable place I have ever curled up. And yet, I spent more hours napping on that bench that anyone could count. We started calling it "Katie's Resting Place" after my favorite childhood book "Lovable Furry Old Grover's Resting Places." It gave me a chance to rest my tired body and, most importantly, put my head down. It was the only place outside of the bed infusion rooms that I could put my head down. The rest of the time was spent resting my head on my Mum's shoulder. I didn't cry on her shoulder a lot but I certainly slept on it plenty! The sun room was also a lovely way to combat staring at blank walls when I was unable to sleep. Instead of the cold atmosphere of the hospital rooms I was able to look around at plants everywhere the eye could see. Ferns, giant shiny leaves on potted trees, plants hung from the ceiling, gorgeous orchids, and everything you could think of. Never has a room created the serenity that the Healing Garden sun room has.
Outside was the best part. Despite being in the middle of  the noise of a city and the noise of the hospital, the garden was always peaceful and quiet. You could only hear the faint sounds of life eight stories down but mostly you heard the birds. If you looked past the plexiglass that surrounded the edges it was easy to forget that you were in man-made nature. It had assorted benches and chairs that were each sectioned off into semi-private areas. My favorite bench was between two full-size trees. You had a perfect view of the city and on hot days the slight breeze was wonderful. It was also just far enough away from the water feature to keep you from needing to pee constantly! Another favorite activity was to kick off my shoes and walk around in the grass barefoot. That was definitely not something I could do the the park nearby where we lived. The constant ever changing variety of different plants and flowers was always a welcome distraction. I also loved to look at the funny garden statues that depicted medical professionals as little aliens landing - complete with their little spaceship. It was utterly surreal to have such a complete garden in that location but somehow they pulled it off. We had sun or shade, grass, plants, and almost miraculously, healthy full-size trees.
If anyone had told me five years ago that one of my favorite places in nature would be eight stories up and in a hospital I would have thought they were crazy. But the Healing Garden changed all of that. Yes, it was probably closer to "artificial" than "natural" but it brought this country girl the plants, trees, and grass she needed to keep sane.  It makes me wonder about the people who had the idea for the garden initially. I like to think that they stretched out on their front lawns as ants crawled over them to keep from going crazy during their treatments too. The past-time I started to help me feel more "grounded" during the chaos of cancer revealed itself eight stories above ground. How you can feel closer to the earth and calmed when you're actually that high up and over the building that has caused you such distress is beyond me but that's the magic effect of nature.

Introduction

On May 14th of this year I will finally graduate with my Early Childhood Education degree. I am now 24 years old and this two year degree program has taken me five years to complete. To keep things in perspective I have to remind myself daily that not everyone beat cancer and studied in Ireland while working on their degree.

Family is the most important thing in the world to me. I'm also a crazy pet lady. If at least two animals aren't within a few feet of me, I feel strange. I have one sibling and I love him more than I love myself. I had always been a home-body. I was home-schooled through high school and eighth grade. It wasn't until I studied through the George Mitchell Peace Scholarship that I became obsessed with travel. My "New Year Resolution" for 2011 is to visit three more countries this year. Last year I visited Ireland, England, and Germany. This year I would like to go to Italy, Spain, and Austria.

When I'm not daydreaming about the places I will travel I am trying to work out what I want to do with my life. Working at the kindergarten for my field placement brings me endless joy but I know myself well enough to know that I want to do many things in this lifetime. I want to run support groups for cancer patients and young women, continue to raise money for charities and causes I care about, write about traveling and how to beat cancer without losing your mind, and a million other things. When I transfer to UMaine at Orono in the fall I believe I will major in Communications with a minor in German. It's an ecclectic mix that I think will suit me.