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.