Tits

My family always ate meals together at the table.  All three meals.  Farm families can do that. Breakfast of pancakes and gravy.  Big dinner of roast beef and potatoes at noon, and usually soup for supper.  Something to be said about sitting around the table looking at each other that many times a day.  At breakfast we always had the radio on to catch the news, usually weather, because that was the only news that really mattered to farmers.  At dinner (lunch to most) we would talk about the day, the crops, the weather, the jobs that needed doing, and of course how good the food was.  And at supper, we talked about everyone's day.  What we did, how we felt and how we could make the next day better.

My brother, Rod and I sat on a bench by a big glass window.  I fell backwards through that window when I was very small, but have no memory of the incident, only a long scar on my thumb.  But I do remember that we sat on that bench every meal of every day. for most of my growing up years.

One dinner meal is vividly picturesque in my mind.  As usual, we had gone to Broken Bow (about 40 miles away} on a Sat. morning.  I had my piano lessons every Saturday morning while my parents bought the week's groceries.  This particular Saturday after piano lessons. my mom took me into the Ben Franklin store and together we bought my first bra.  I selected a finely padded bra to give rise to my barely budding breasts.  I was so proud.

We got home in time for our noon meal.  I sat on the bench I had always sat on, but now I was voluptuous. I had on my padded bra, and I stuck out like nobodies business.  Well, my brothers had a hay day.  Needless to say, I was embarrassed.  But, I was getting them, tits, and by the reaction of my brothers, it was a pretty big deal.

Lots of year and lots of tit experiences have come and gone since then. We women learned as children that they were pretty cool and we could flaunt them to get remarkable and often pleasing reactions.

Not long ago I was wanting to look my best for an important function.  I had a dress made especially for the event.  "Go get fitted for a real bra," were my instructions from the dress designer.  So I went to Nordstroms and  spent hours being fitted for the perfect look.  I was so convinced that these bras
would make me beautiful, that I bought 3 of them and spent nearly $400.  They are painful to wear and I don't think I'm any more or less  beautiful with or without them.  Point is, tits are problematic.

And now, I'm at the most problematic point I've been in all my tit time.  I have cancer of the tits.  I suppose I should be more politically correct and say, I have breast cancer, but that seems to give them too much importance.

I'm at a place where I may soon choose to no longer have breasts, and I have to decide how I feel about that.  I stand in front of the mirror and say to myself, "not bad, even for an old lady like me," while at the same time imagining how I will look without them.

Self image is critically important. For the young girl sitting across the table from her brothers, self image was everything, and breasts were the magic pill to wonderfulness.  As a woman who has lived with those things since those early days of budding, I know there were times when losing them would have been a crisis.

Now, it doesn't seem important.  I  so wish to not have to go through all the mess and pain and inconvenience that my breast cancer poses, but whether I have tits to put into my uncomfortable $100 bras or not is not the issue for me now.  My issue is Rowan.  Rowan and the great grand kids and all the grand kids.  They sure won't care if I have tits.  They just want to have my music and joy, my laughter and games.  They want me healthy and happy.  I want that too.

I've put my tits in the hands of both God and my surgeon.  And I will move forward with music and joy and laughter long after their hands have done their duty.  Cancer be gone in whatever form that needs to be.  

Farewell, Dear Friends

As much as I've loved you, and as helpful as you've been to me, I'm going to leave you.  I hate to write this, because then I have to act, but I am, I am going to leave you behind.  And you've been so comforting.  Brandy and Potato Chips.  My close friends for many years.  My nightly partners in grief and survival.  My lover substitutes, my sensual joys.  I'm leaving you behind, because I have a new battle to fight and you are not the tools I need for this battle.

You probably didn't cause it, but my body has taken on a new challenge, breast cancer, and my old friends, Brandy and Potato Chips just have to go.  I'm just getting a grip of it's reality as it comes in waves, but somehow I am now in a new place where taking charge has a whole new meaning for me.
All the things that I know are good for me, and all the things that I know are not good for me are swimming around in my head, and the only thing I hear is, duh.  Seriously, duh.  So it's time to take care of me.

Breast Cancer.  Well that really sucks.  But, oh, well, it could be a head on collision when I have no choices and no chances.  So this ride will be full of amazement for sure, but what it won't be full of is Brandy and Potato Chips.  Ready, Set, Go.  I sure don't want to ride this ride, but I'm on it, so I might as well ride it with a clear mind and grease-less fingers.  What lies ahead has only one assurance, that I will be lifted up daily by my family and my faith.

It felt really good, until the fall

It felt really good, until the fall

So I spent the morning in the beauty shop hanging out with one of my favorite people, Joey.  We both like to write, but we drag our butts, having them wrapped around our own belief that, even though we know we're amazing pens, there's the fear that nobody else gives a rip.  After all, lots of people write, you know.  What makes us think we're good anyway?   And then it came to us.  Such a novel thought.  Hold on!  We can appreciate each other's mixture of words!  You know, like dress designers who get together and ooh and ah over each other's work, or car guys who stare for hours at the other guys slick and shinny fenders and rims, or crafty people who make stuff and strut around all proud while others swoon over their creation.  I mean, really, we're just as good as them.  We can write and we can share.

 We challenged one another to get off our butts, or on, as usually I write on mine, well, not on mine, that would be difficult, but sounds fun...off track.  What to write?  We decided something funny.  Well shit, that's easy.  My life is just one bundle of tragic laughs.  So, here goes, Joey, my friend.  I'm on my butt, I'm writing fast because I really need twenty bucks.  

So much funny stuff.  Let's start with the salon visit.  Seriously it's comic relief to just walk in, sit and watch.  Check out the posters.  "keep calm and wrap on,"  "What is your Eufora Promise?, "Inner strength creates outer beauty, strong, be inspiring, smooth stylish bold vibrant refined unique real......"  There's more, but gag me.  First of all, not one person there is trying to be REAL.  They're trying to be something they, quite frankly, are not.  Why else do we go to salons?  I can't argue with the inner strength creates outer beauty message, but there is absolutely nothing that goes on in that, or any salon,  that develops inner strength.  How does that message get into a bottle of something?  Bottle of brandy, maybe.  Now, what is your Eufora promise anyway?  Well, if you look carefully at the poster it looks like a marijuana plant.  Is there a secret room in this place where we can smoke a joint or two and share our great euphoric promises?  Now, we just might find inner strength, become smooth, stylish and inspiring if that were the case and believe you me, I'm sure we would be real.  And maybe, just maybe, I could be calm and wrap on, all at the same time.  It's all just a bunch of phony stuff for us to gobble up so we can feel REAL.  Now, if I were real, I would be as gray as gray gets and I would probably be spewing stuff at people that I think are so ridiculous.  I just love the parade.   

Lest we not forget the gorgeous guy who came in with great hair and walked out with none, except a tuft on top.  He was proud.  He was happy and he was nearly bald, on purpose.  What gives.  He was still gorgeous. 

And, could she be anything but a good example of beauty.  I mean the strut in the tight pants and 4 inch boots, the extensions hanging over her over made eyes, her smirky smile that really is saying," look at me, I'm so dang great."  How I would love to take her aside and teach her how to dress.  How did she get to own that place anyway?  I counted 40 times back and forth.  He feet must hurt big time at the end of the day.  Nobody can do that for real. 

Then there's the blond addict who walked in not looking bad, but by the time the hairdresser took out all of her extensions she had most of what was on her head laying on the table next to her and I shuddered at the thought of someone trying to run their fingers through her hair and either bring out a chunk, or feeling like she had scurvy.  I hope she warns any potential hair fingers partner.  

I sorta like the blue haired girl.  Perky for sure, but what's with the hat?  

I'm such a bitch.  I go there to do exactly what they are all doing, become a better version on myself, but jez, do they have to be so weird.  Actually it was a kinky way to start my day.  Reality is whatever we can get away with covering up. 

So I have breast cancer.  Now this is pretty shitty news given that fact, well, nobody wants breast cancer, but just how many bad things are okay in one single year?  There's probably a formula for this.  Guess I haven't maxed out the secret formula which gives great hope to those of you just smoothing along in your life.  Shit is coming your way.  No way to get ready for it, except of course to make sure you "be calm and wrap on."  My first mistake was getting a mammogram.  So they found something, went after it, cut me open big time, and in case you're wondering, it hurts like the devil to have a two inch gash wrapped around your nipple.  My God, did I use that word, nipple?  On no, that's not the "N" word.  Moving on.   Well, what they went after was nothing, but golly gee, they found an edge of terribleness......cancer, and now, well, of course, they have to go get that.  Another boob bombardment and I'm in the system now, so......shit I'm going back to the salon to find my real Eufora Promise and to become REAL. 

So the doctor told me that if I'm going to have breast cancer this is the best breast cancer you can have.  You can't imagine how good that made me feel.  Duh!  My son gave me the best medicine possible, laughter.  In a serious talk he asked, "which breast, mom?"  "Right."  "Whew!  Thank God, I never liked that one much anyway."  I have been laughing for a week. 

My wallet, phone, got stolen off the counter of the shop last week.  I was a few minutes away from the counter and bam, it disappeared.  I didn't even know it was gone.  Then I get a call from Ubaldo.  A police officer was at the door with my wallet/phone.  They nabbed him within 15 min. of taking it off the counter.  So, if you're gonna get robbed, that's the best robbery you can have.  I think that's like my cancer.  It's gonna be a pain, but no big deal. 

Stuff has to be funny or it's just no fun to go through.  My husband died this year.  He gave me more grief than a bean supper, but he was the love of my life.  We laughed everyday about the crap, literally, we had to deal with, and I miss him with an ache that creeps into my pours.  But he would be the first to tell me, "laugh, baby, this is what we've got!" 

Joey told me today that he had started riding his bike.  I said, "that must feel good....." and he responded with, "yes it felt real good until the fall."  Well, shit, Joey.  Don't you know how metaphoric that is? Everything was good until the fall.   Even Jed.  Until his fall he was great.  And then he wasn't.  So the trick is, to keep that bike riding feeling going in our lives, that I'm gonna be the best I can be place, that "what is your Euforic promise place, that inner strength makes outer beauty place.......anyway, keep it going until you get bad stuff.

 And then, when you get bad stuff, just dance.  Laugh and know that it wasn't your plan, or furthermore, a result of anything you did.   And remember that friends, the real ones, the ones who can be calm and wrap on, the ones who have inner strength to give them outer beauty....the REAL friends  will laugh with you, make your hair pink, smoke a joint with you, and  just sit and stare at others who have no idea that life is funny.   

My Old Life

I can't tell you how much I miss my old life.  The other one.  The one when Jed was alive.  I can't begin to list all the things I miss, but the laughter and arguing, making love, discussing about ideas...and just knowing that whatever I came up with, however weak or strange or needy, whatever idea that stirred in my head, I could share with him.  And he would validate me. 

I miss making him dinner and folding his clothes.  I miss his snore. 

I've filled my bed with pillows and textiles in an attempt to take his place, but they just clutter up my bed.  Actually I've done lots of things to paint over sorrow.  I've had the trees trimmed, the deck repaired...lots of stuff to make me well.  And I am well.  I'm just lonely for him. 

I am remarkably blessed with amazing people and I'm not alone.  I'm not even lonely.  I'm just lonely for him.  We bantered with utmost confidence in one another.  We took off and explored places with abandon.  We said, "screw it" to convention and did only what we felt like doing.  Sometimes that got us in a great deal of trouble and sometimes it took us to amazing places and left us with life long stories to tell. 

I miss how he could tell a story about anything and make it believable.  I miss how he sang off tune. I miss his passion for knowledge and his often irreverent way of expressing it. 

And now, I realize how much I miss having him to make decisions about money.  I took the road of disagreeing and "I told you so," when things went wrong.  What a bitch I was.  Someone had to make decisions.  And now, it's me.  I have to decide what to do about stuff.  What to fix, what not to fix.  I always held this, "I know what to do" attitude, but then went along with what ever he said.  If it went sour, I poured it on.  If it went well, somehow I got him to agree that it was my idea.  That was a real shitty place to put him.  I wonder if he even knew?  I'm not sure I did.  Not until now, when I have to make decisions with no one to blame.

Marriage.  It's more than it seems and when its a fit, a real fit of two lives, two souls, well, it's pretty near perfect.  That's what I miss.  We had it perfect.  We fought and cried and hated one another at times.  We talked about divorce hundreds of times.  But it was always, "if that's what you want...." and it was never what either of us wanted.  We laughed and loved making love.  We touched one another to the core of our beings.  How we loved to argue.  I can see the twinkle in his eye as he would watch me get red faced and passionate about something.  He would listen and beckon me toward him.  I would  rant louder, but move a little closer.....perhaps this is too personal.  I miss my old life. 

My new life is lovely.  I don't do anything.  It's all done for me.  I don't buy groceries, I don't do laundry, I don't make breakfast, I don't make dinner, I don't even clean my toilet.  It sounds good, and it is, but it makes me miss my old life with a ache that creeps and crawls around in me till all I can do is go to bed. 

I'm okay.  Most of the time I'm more than okay.  Jed's birthday is next week and perhaps that's my maudlin cause.  Last year on his birthday we were at the cabin with Steve.  But missing something that was so good, well, it takes a bit of time.  I asked my father a few months after my mom died if he had any regrets.  Whatever made me ask such a question is beyond me, but we were in the truck going over dirt roads and he said, "only that she died."  It took my breath away then and still does, because that, too, is my only regret, that he died. 

Got Friends?

I'm a really fortunate person.  Lucky.  Yep, I'm just plain lucky.  Today I was talking with Elizabeth, my employee, about life and the way things are.  I just get stumped sometimes.  I think young people like her, are looking at me for answers, and I look back at my life and know that I really don't have any.  The only one is, that I'm lucky.  I was raised by great parents.  I lived in a healthy environment most of my life, I had great kids, yadda, yadda, yadda.  Deal is, I was, and am, just lucky.

Had my shares of stress and bad decisions.  Had my share of really bad stuff, but it's all been okay.  Even the really bad stuff.  I am a Christian.  I believe in the whole ball of wax.  But, even though I believe, I also know that sometimes you just need to be lucky.  My luck has been in my peeps, as Jen, my amazing daughter-in-law, would say.  My peeps.  The people I love and who love me.  Forever,  I have been lucky with peeps, 

Got friends?  Yep.  I have friends.  Friends to share with, friends to yell at, friends to share space with, have meals with, laugh with and try to solve life problems with. This is God's greatest gift.  Luck/God toss a coin.  I know that the peeps that make me whole have come to me through family and accident.  How was it that I connected with such amazing people?  I will thank God every day of my life for the luck He granted me through the people that I gratefully call friends. 

Rowan

Tomorrow Rowan will be one.  The day one year ago is vivid.  "Today's the day!" was the message I got midmorning.  Jed said, "go."  I hesitated and, Jed said, "GO!"  Ubaldo got on the computer while I packed and Jed instructed.  I was off.  Quick flight, long drive, and into the forest.  Home birth in the wild country.  The day was long and I kept expecting to hear of his birth.  Into the night I drove up the hill through the trees, hoping all was well.  And, just as I arrived, so did Rowan.  When I walked through the door he was there, beautiful bitty Rowan Oak.  Born in a portable tub in a little love nest far north of San Francisco.  Little Rowan suckled and nuzzled next to his exhausted parents as the midwives took out the evidence.  The next few days I cooked and proudly cared for my new little family. 

Time changes things.  As it should be.  Now, one year later I have an ache in my heart that Rowan will never know Jed.  But, what I do know, is that Jed is looking out for him.  Angie shared with me that after Jed died he came to her telling her that he was sorry they didn't have a better relationship, and he told her that he would always take care of Rowan.  My God, what a beautiful and powerful message to be given from the other world.  Rowan will always be taken care of!  I have tears flowing as I think about the power of love. 

So tonight, I've written on tea mugs, "Our Little Honey, Rowan, is 1"  I've stuffed the mugs with honey sticks and have packed, or plan to pack, gobs of things to take to his teddy bear picnic party.  Ubaldo has planned yet another perfect party and we will go to Oakland on Friday to celebrate Rowan becoming one. 

But, as we plan this adventure, another awaits.  I am making plans to "move" to Oakland for an extended time.  This was rather spontaneous, but it feels right.  Angie and Robyn are under considerable stress and I am able to help.  I talk to Jed all the time.  I asked him, "so, what do you think of my idea of moving up to Oakland to help Angie, Rob and Rowan for a while."  And then I realized, duh, it was his idea in the first place.  Jed put the idea in my head because he has committed himself to always taking care of Rowan. 

With the help of Ubaldo, Dylan and Elizabeth, I am getting the shop in order.  Soon I will leave it to them to run.  I will miss the daily people greeting and affirmation that we have done a great job to make the shop amazing.  But, I am looking forward to the new adventures that await me in Oakland. 
Life is rich and wonderful.  Grandbabies make that more obvious.  I choose to hang with joy.  His little year has been filled with joy and tears for me.  But I rest comfortably in the knowledge that Jed came through the veil of death to vow his constant vigil of care to Rowan.  You just can't get much more beautiful than that. 

Hawks and Eagles and Things That Fly Through Your Mind

Jed's been gone from this earth more than six months.  The part that wouldn't burn is in a box in my closet.  His good friend, Reg called today and we talked briefly about what life is like now.  Well, it's not different at all, and yet there's nothing the same.  I hear Jed's voice constantly, guiding me and giving me validation to move on.  I hear his voice tell me to not doubt myself, to believe in who I am, to be the me that I want to be, that nothing I could do would disappoint him.  We had a love.  He used to say, "people would kill for what we have, Sherry."  How did this beauty come to us?

However it came, and however it continues, is mystery bound in magic.  We had a brief 25 years where we seeped and oozed and made magic and beauty midst prison and ugliness.  We lifted without knowing, we made it laughter, and battle and truth and tears.  We had a love. 

And now he comes to me on wings.  When I need to feel the confidence we gave each other, he is there in a swoop of wings, sometimes a call, always quick.  He rested quickly outside a window of anxiety, he swooped low at James's funeral, he often visits while I sit and think drink on the deck.  His presence is important.  Life without him is pretty much the same as life with him, except it's void of magic.  It's void of insight and spontaneous joy. 

I like to believe that Jed can channel his current existence to this one.  I like to believe that he has chosen to do that through the hawk.  It just makes sense that he would choose the  hawk because he was so enamored by their flight beauty.  And, he would know that I would know. 

The mind is a mystical place.  The faith that there is more than we know is not only mystical, but essential.  So, the things that fly though my mind are hawks and eagles and the faith that there is more than we know, and while I live and breathe on this earth, I will watch hawks and eagles with an awareness that there's more to death than gone.  There's more to life than here.  There's more.  Believing makes it so.