Sunday, May 5, 2013

The Now ... Bless Me??

It has been nearly a month since I have written. Someone I know and love suggested that it was because I was busy with happy stuff. For a while, yes, it was. I was busy with happy stuff. However, for the last couple weeks it was because of void: Void of happiness. Void of purpose. Void of Joy. Void of activity. Voidness (this is not even a real word). I don't wish this on anyone.

void adj. 1. having no legal force or effect; not legally binding or enforceable. Bah -- not useful here. 2. useless; ineffectual; vain. Curious -- the vain thing. Hmmmm. 3. devoid; destitute. 4. without contents; empty.

How depressing.

Sure, I could dust. I could vacuum. But the house is pretty neat! My laundry is done. My dishes are done. My lawn is even mowed (see "Making Hay." Coup.) My bills are paid. I did the FAFSA. I'm running and have lost freaking 12 pounds. I could change my sheets, but my bedroom isn't a mess! I could clean my shower, but it's not that bad. I have NOTHING to do right now! I could be out having fun, but I'm home on Cinco de Mayo doing nothing but planting bulbs. Dang.

One sister golfed, one sister is in the Mediterranean! One sister is probably gardening and spending the evening with her husband -- all with purpose. I am alone here at home wondering what the freak my life is all about. I sure go up and down, don't I?

This morning in church a lovely woman spoke about abandoning her entire life here in our comfortable country -- selling everything -- and going to Haiti to work as a Mission Co-Worker for the Presbyterian Church. I am in awe of her sacrifice -- of her choices. I sat there knowing that my service to the church rather pales in comparison ... yeh, I sing and I work for the church -- but her sacrifice is measurable. Is mine? I paid lots of money to send my spawn into the mission field this spring. They were effective -- they were affected -- and, yeh, it's a sacrifice for me. But really? Was it really a sacrifice? Am I really just hiding under that guise of making stuff possible -- paying the way -- undergirding the ministry? Geez. I'm shaking my own head trying to figure it all out.

I've recently discovered something really cool. I have found that I have little to no personal pride. Is that good or bad? Ha ha ha!! OMG. It's a good question. Good or bad. More importantly, I have realized that that lack of pride means that I truly have some sort of strange, wonderful, grace to offer that can only be of God -- not of me. I have truly become some sort of "void" instrument of peace. wow. Please don't misunderstand. I am surprised and really happy! I think I used to be a more judgmental, less tolerant, less forgiving person. Now I'm just NOT. I'm NOT. However, that means that I am vulnerable. I am open to hurt -- injury -- pain, which, of course, I really don't want to experience! I've had enough of that!! But ... I am experiencing it. And it's not fun. I don't like it. I hate it. I'm suffering.

So now that I have you all perplexed and wondering and worried ... just breathe. God and I have this understanding: I suffer and He (or she or whomever that makes you all feel gooey inside) just keeps doing what He does. And I suck it up. Not happily. I'm gonna' have some freaking conversation when and if I ever make it into the Kingdom: "What were you thinking?!?"

So, as my kids enter finals week, I make public these things: I love my children. I am so incredibly proud of them -- for the grief and sorrow that they've overcome; for their personal achievements in academics and in global missions; for loving me so beautifully; for loving each other without limit; for cherishing their heritage; for worshipping their Lord and Savior. Dang :-)

I guess I've done okay. I loved my husband through his life -- his illness -- his ministry -- his vocation. I gave care through his death. I honor his parents, though my own are dead. I have raised my children in the church and taught them to love God, neighbor, enemy and self ... and still bare my heart and soul, even to my detriment. I AM LESLIE. Hear me freaking roar. ha ha ha. I amuse myself!!

But, God, you and me need to have a chat.

Do I need to start a new blog? Am I uncleaved to the degree that I ever can be? I wonder ... a few times in the last couple weeks I thought of putting my wedding rings back on my finger ... a sort of false protection? A return to what I know? A rebuffing of crap? Maybe ... but, in the end, I am not married. David is dead. He is gone. He loved me. He cherished me. He wasn't always kind or loving, like all husbands. But, generally, I knew his love -- his devotion -- his respect. I'm "supposed" to still be shielded by that -- to be covered and protected. Instead, I'm bare and naked and open to everything! Ouch. That's why my God and I need to have a chat. I'm talking, but I'm not sure He's listening. HEY!!! Listen-up!

It is time for me to live a life that is free from DEATH. To be free from ANGST. To be free from worry and brokenheartedness. Ok? I want to live that life that the charmed folks live: To be cherished by a wonderful man; to have healthy children; to be free of scary medical stuff; to live alongside of people I love for a freaking LONG TIME. And for my son to get an A in Philosophy :-) LOL.

Someone I love deeply told me that God must have something for me to LEARN right now -- in the midst of some unhappy stuff. I love her and cherish her and trust her ... but all I could think was, "Haven't I learned enough? Isn't it time for my life to be a little more easy-going ... joyful ... lovely?" Please, God. Bless me now!!

Then I sit back in my chair and have to acknowledge that I have been so richly blessed throughout my struggles and my losses and my sorrows. So many saints have held me in their daily prayers ... in their hearts and souls. I would never want to diminish the beauty and power of those loving prayers, and, so, in humility ... step away from my demands of my Lord. But still, I know that He wants to know my heart's desire: Grant me joy. Thank you, God.

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

Bare-handed Cliffdiving

I do the dishes bare-handed ... clean the tub that way, too -- yeh, the pine-sol and soft scrub are hard on them, but those "living" gloves make my hands stink and water gets down inside of them anyway. I do not, however, garden bare-handed. I always wear gloves. Blisters and worms and bugs are enough to make me do that. But I never take my rings off to do any of these things. I knead bread and put on hand lotion with the rings on -- so I guess these hands of mine have never really been totally bare for a very long time.

I took my wedding rings off a few nights ago.

Several weeks ago I went through most of David's clothes. He had a lot of them. I had given some obvious stuff to Goodwill a couple years ago, but his bureau was still full. Honestly, I needed to do it. I had my winter clothes in a trunk inside the closet and have been grabbing stuff from in there for a stupid long time because I've simply not done the big seasonal dresser swap -- you know, with the hibernating and all ... Anyway, one day I just did it. I packed five huge garbage bags full of his clothes and some shoes to give away. I saved most of his tie-dyes, some Levis and stuff that I think the kids will want some day, but the dresser was empty. I got the Murphy's and washed it inside and out (no gloves) -- relined the drawers -- and even washed the rest of my furniture. Cleansing.

The bureau is still mostly empty, but I'm doing this in stages.

Last week was a really yo-yo kind of week. My emotions were all over the place. The kids had been home for Easter and had gone back to school ... and would be off on more international travel, this time together -- just about all grown-up. (Daughter will turn 21 in just a few days.) And a bunch of other stuff was going on in my small life to suitably mess with my head.

Then I wrote about the hospitals. I hate to sound hackneyed, but it was cathartic. A close friend asked me if it was difficult to write. Heck, yes. It was difficult. It was a really tedious piece for me -- so much detail to recall and to communicate. It required that I punch into memories that I keep covered with a blanket of protection -- that had to be let loose for a couple hours. And when I finally published it, I wasn't "spent," as I would have imagined ... I was angry. I was distraught. But I was cleansed.

I write a lot about moving beyond and moving forward and whatever all of that means -- about discovery and surprises -- about comfort and hope. But sometimes clarity is what I pray for the most. That's my impatience at work. I want answers fast. I want to know who I'm going to be and what I'm going to do right now because I feel like I've been treading water for so long! But clarity -- understanding -- revelation -- can be so slow. A dear friend said that God knows what he is doing! and slow can sometimes be quite enjoyable. Humph. She's pretty smart and knows me very well. Yeh, but still ...

So, I found myself sobbing that night. And that is strange because I don't really cry anymore. (Yes, I know ... also cathartic.) I had removed my rings and put them in the jewelry cleaner thingy -- sort of an interim holding place, I guess. Then looked up and saw my face in the mirror. I've never seen myself look like that -- even throughout everything that I have experienced in my life. My mascara was running down my face and I looked ghoulish and sort of frightening. That abruptly calmed me down. I grabbed a kleenex and started wiping it away, stood up straight and took another glance, then went to bed. The next day was a happy day. A happy day. It was a new feeling. It's really nice.

Does this mean I'm all successfully uncleaved now? It seems lately that I'm not so reluctant about it anymore. Am I being more pragmatic? Na. I think I simply don't feel tethered to my marriage anymore. I do believe that I will always be cleaved to David to some degree. I spent half of my life with him. We made these awesome children from that love. We made a home together. We went to hell and back together ... but he is gone and he is not coming back. Living is for the living. I am alive -- very alive, so I have to keep on keepin' on.

I have an image in my cluttered mind of standing on a precipice, my arms wide-spread with the wind whipping around me, tangling my hair around my face -- reaching a foot out -- wanting to just step off. Taking a leap -- for excitement and adventure rather than the status quo? to feel joy rather than sorrow? to take a risk rather than be a scaredy-cat? Probably. But the fall would kill me. Better to trust that God knows what he's doing and slow down a little? take a step back? And, alas, no climbing gloves, either -- so I probably couldn't catch myself on the way down with those bare hands. So then what? I'm ready for something. God, a little clarity, please!

Friday, April 5, 2013

Hospitals Part 2 and probably 3, at least -- needed to finish this ...

We were getting ready to move. David had accepted a position with Wang Computers (which soon became absorbed by Eastman Software) up in Boston. We had put a contract on a blue, boxy house with a cool address ... 44 Lamplighter Lane ... and were desperately trying to sell our quaint little townhouse in Virginia. It wasn't selling. The summer of 1996 was not a good market for sellers. But we were going on faith that our home would sell because we were tired of living apart, with David commuting every other weekend and two week separations. The thing is, he wasn't "right." He was experiencing headaches for the first time in his life -- bad ones -- and he was strangely emotional and his normal confidence was waning. I knew something was wrong ... I even dared to voice the words "brain tumor." How ridiculous, right? Even our family doctor suggested it was just stress resulting in tension headaches -- but that if they continued after our move, David should see a doctor. I was still uneasy. And one night that he was home -- spent banging his head on the bed in pain intermingled with taking care of our very ill daughter -- changing sheets and bathing her -- ended in a morning marked by his own nausea and imbalance -- a fall. I called the ambulance.

Thankfully, David had a big seizure in the ER that morning. If he had not, they would have sent him home -- blaming the nausea and dizziness on too many pain meds. He would have gone into respiratory failure and died at home that very day. Instead, he seized -- they took CT scans and found a large brain tumor -- baseball sized -- and, in respiratory distress, was intubated and given paralytics to prepare him for a life flight to the medical center of my choice. I watched them move my husband out to the helicopter pad and was left standing there with my toddler on my hip -- nearly paralyzed myself -- facing a huge life event. The moving truck was coming the next day. The curtains were down; the house ready to be packed-up. But my husband was being flown to another hospital for emergency brain surgery. I couldn't possibly drive, so called a dear family friend to come be with me -- transport me -- hold me up.

Imagine scaredy-cat me dealing with a distant, arrogant young brain surgeon -- asking what he was going to do before signing the consent forms. He looked at me like I was a silly little girl ... don't question me, just sign. Geez! My mother's heart surgeon had very gently and patiently explained her entire heart procedure. Can't this dude offer me a little of that? No. But he did offer me the most important tid bit of information: Your husband will survive the surgery. Okay, then! Do it. Do it before he successfully comes-to and pulls out his intubation tubes! Stubborn man -- metabolizing the paralytics faster than most -- was it Ativan? That fighter spirit was really crucial for the rest of his journey, but on that day, he needed to just stay unconscious and safely intubated. How alarming it was to helplessly watch him wake enough to fight the respirator. But the next day, he did survive the surgery. He woke up confused, but not in too much pain. He got up and shaved the rest of his head and called me, asking me where I was. David. He was such an alpha. He's ruined me forever.

Soon after that first emergent surgery, we found the Brain Tumor Center at Duke and a pair of amazing doctors. After the first operation and a round of experimental protocol (David was #7 in a clinical trial for a drug now commonly used in treating brain tumors), they found a second tumor, nearly as large as the first. The thinking was that it had always been there, but simply not detected in the scans. Curiously, many years later, reading a radiologist's post-surgical report that said there was a so many centimeter tumor in his head, I realized that he had been correct. We scoffed (we being the medical folks) that the radiologist was seeing the "black hole" left after the excision of that monster tumor -- but, in actuality, he was probably reporting that second tumor. Go figure ... Anyway, when it was finally detected, of course it had to come out. Just four months after the first surgery, David had to have a second full-blown craniotomy. Thankfully, they could use the same bone flap. Craniotomy is any bony opening that is cut into the skull. A section of skull, called a bone flap, is removed to access the brain underneath. There are many types of craniotomies, which are named according to the area of skull to be removed. Typically the bone flap is replaced. At least I thought that was good ... not having to make a new cut into his head ... but following this second surgery -- over Thanksgiving -- he experienced a great deal of pain. During that hospital stay, David exhibited the beginning of his "bad" behavior. He nearly broke the bed, kicking the footboard in response to his pain. I had to learn fast how to be an advocate -- to fight for pain meds, among other things. Subsequent hospitalizations for biopsies resulted in other such "bad" behavior . He discharged himself once -- just got up and walked out because he grew weary of the processs and a snotty nurse. Though making me quite uncomfortable on several levels, I learned from that act. I don't take much crap these days. Thanks, David.

Duke Medical Center replaced my dread (associated with hospitals) with hope. That's their slogan, by the way, "At Duke,There is Hope." But it was true. At Duke we found a doctor who wanted to save David's life. Who dismissed [what he called] the "nihilism" of the standard protocol for treating grade IV brain tumors -- in David's case, GBM IV -- Glioblastoma Multiforme -- Generally considered to be a death sentence. Henry, along with Allan, formed a formidable team fighting for David's life. And they won that fight for 14 years. After nearly destroying a bed, he returned for an experimental nuclear protocol and was isolated in a room there for a week. He nearly went mad. Then he had an awake biopsy.

This experience did not live-up to the excellence anticipated at Duke, however. A couple of stupid residents bungled the prep. First, they basically performed a sort of medieval torture on David -- injecting four doses of lidocaine in four places on his head, pushing the syringe too quickly and thereby creating golfball sized swelling into which they immediately began to SCREW a halo into his skull.
These idiots didn't even wait for the lidocaine to take effect or for the swelling to subside. They just barrelled on into the procedure. I sure wish I had been the woman I am today. I would have stepped-in and stopped the agony. Instead, all I could do was lock eyes with David -- witnessing a suffering too unbearable to explain. This image of a halo isn't David ... but gives you an idea of what it looks like. They use it to yank your head into a frame in an MRI machine and then to immobilize the head during surgery. Somehow I made it all the way to pre-op, where Allan suggested that since I had made it that far, should I not just come on into the surgery? You see, these dummies had carelessly attached the halo while David was in his street clothes. They had to cut-off a $40 Russell DUKE crossweave sweatshirt. (We didn't keep that shirt ...) David's biopsy was an awake one -- the first of two. It was no fun to hear a drill going into his head and then hear another idiot resident say, "Oops." Unbelievable. But we still believed we were where we needed to be. And we were.

David had at least one other awake biopsy (a better, more humane halo event) and a plethora of MRIs and PET scans at Duke Hospital. Up until late 2008, most of our experiences there were of hope and survival -- of healing and recovery -- beating the "beast," as David called it. It was a happy place. He lived for many years free of treatment. I really believed he was "cured," though that word is never used in the same sentence as Glioblastoma ... Even his doctors believed he may have been the exception to the rule.

Then, following a curious tour in England and Sweden where he experienced a queer inability to carry a tune properly and a failure to recover from jet-lag, the recurrence was diagnosed -- I think it was the fall of 2008. I believed that day would never come; David admitted that he feared it always would. When these strange symptoms became blatant, we got an MRI here at home -- and a consult with David's local neuro-oncologist presented us with two options. 1) Travel immediately to Duke for surgery to remove an 8mm cyst; or 2) Let one of our surgeons excise it. We quickly packed and went that very evening to Duke -- entering, for the first time ever, through the Emergency Department. David was never the same after this surgery. This was also our kids' first real experience with the emergent nature of David's illness.

Now the ugly part. I wonder if I can even remember everything -- it was so traumatic.

We drove to Duke that night -- the four of us. We turned onto Trent Drive and found the Emergency Room, as directed -- and went in that way. Surprisingly, admission was swift. They had been expecting us. Somewhere in and among all of this I have memories of sitting in the Duke Hospital lobby waiting and waiting and waiting for something -- admission? surgical something? I just don't know. Somehow, the mind protects us from some of the most traumatic stuff, you know? Anyway, I do know that I was there at least twice, waiting ... and trying to keep David calm amidst the ridiculous waiting. The last time I believe he mostly slept. That's how ill he was. He'd kill me for saying that publicly. Sorry.

What did we do?! He had a cyst -- a large one -- 8mm. It was attached to tumor, of course, but David only heard "cyst" and "cyst" isn't tumor. David had the cyst removed. His recovery was challenging. At first he seemed fine, but then things became different. He was very emotional. This was the time when he wrote his 40 days of songs and poems. He isolated himself and wrote. Somehow, with patience and time, he made it through weeks of testing for nuclear medicine. On Christmas Eve, he had the big administration of the radioactive crap. They sent him home! Can you imagine? Christmas morning, we had a "normal" time -- exchanging gifts with our fireplace warming us. Then the headache and the nausea hit -- and were unrelenting. We spent the remainder of Christmas Day in the emergency room -- for ten hours -- and then David was admitted to the University of Virginia Medical Center for a week's stay to determine what had gone wrong. Had he developed Meningitis from all the flow tests? Was he having an adverse reaction to the nuclear medicine? They never figured it out. The day I brought him home, our 21 year old calico could not stand. I nursed that cat through the night -- the cat who had licked my tears and not attacked my babies -- and took her to be put-down the next day. What had my life become?! David dug her grave. Too much. It was all too much.

David was a survivor. He insisted on taking the family to Italy on his hard-earned frequent flyer miles -- and we had an amazing trip. We had gone as a very poor couple back in 1990, unable to afford a gondola ride or any leather goods -- but managed to fulfill both dreams this time around. Rome on Palm Sunday, 2009 and Easter in Venice ... a true gift that our kids will never forget. Somehow he walked those cities, having just finished a round of chemo the week before. His spirit truly was amazing. With the treatments, he was able to fend-off the beast for another year. The months begin to blur for me after that. Somewhere in and among all of that is the really big and awful and horrible and nightmarish event. I have to write about it. I have to tell this story. I'm sorry, in advance.

Was it after all of this that David's charisma evoked a response from his doctors that his increasing inability to walk well was a result of an imbalance of spinal fluid? If David had known what he was inviting then, he would have abandoned the entire hypothesis? In order to determine whether or not there was an imbalance (surplus) of spinal fluid causing his problems, they needed to analyze it. What follows is the most horrible event that I have ever witnessed and what has caused me to delay writing about it.

Spinal Tap -- a funny British movie -- a spoof on English rock bands of the 70's. We loved it. Ha. No. David had two spinal taps. One was that Christmas following his second experience with nuclear medicine. Thankfully, I believe he was unconscious for that test. This second time -- God have mercy. They needed to find out if he had a surplus of spinal fluid or something causing his imbalance. David was desperate for any explanation other than TUMOR. If I knew then what I knew now ... They came in and tortured him. They jammed that huge needle into his spine. He was in excruciating pain and I was POWERLESS to stop it. My soul left my body and witnessed me slump in impotency and my spirit left me. A part of me died that day. The horrifying "test" was negative and left my husband catatonic. They made me take him home that day. Sometimes healthcare is little more than medieval drawing and quartering. I was a changed person.

Then there was more tumor ... and the option of yet another cranitomy to remove another cyst and tumor from David's frontal lobe --stuff was growing in his frontal lobe ... damn. Okay, I need to finish this ... this sordid tale of David's last few months. I need to cleanse myself of this horror and I ask you to stay with me through this. I'm sorry. How do people survive this stuff? I ask the question and answer it all at once: LOVE AND PRAYER ... and God's unbelievable grace and mercy. The surgery that I realized was just a time-stealer, but David believed to be a true treatment...

I think it was in May of 2010 -- I can't quite remember the date. Our daughter was going to graduate from high school on or around June 6 or something like that. I can't even remember my daughter's graduation date! Dang. Anyway, during the surgical consult with Allan regarding David's prognosis he asked what "big event" or "important event" was coming up. I immediately said that our daughter's high school graduation approached. He heard me. David did not. By that point, all David could think of was survival -- the next concert -- getting back on the stage. His personality and judgement had been hijacked. I was at a loss.

Thinking back, I think, perhaps, that we should have denied treatment -- said no to any further surgery -- but David wasn't "there." He wanted to LIVE. He wanted to defeat the "beast." Sometimes I believe that I failed him. Sometimes I believe that I should have been more courageous and stopped the whole thing. Realistically, no ... I needed to defer to David. He was the stupid freaking poster boy of Hope. To die was to fail. God,why did you put us in that position?

There are so many nuances through those days that I will never share publicly. Anyone who has walked the walk with a brain tumor survivor through their last days -- and every brain tumor is different so every single brain cancer survivor's last days are UNIQUE, making a comaraderie in this realm impossible -- understands. Some of this stuff is very private ... however ... frontal lobe surgery ...

If you have no understanding of the frontal lobe, stop reading now and wikipedia it. Okay, I did it for you: The executive functions of the frontal lobes involve the ability to recognize future consequences resulting from current actions, to choose between good and bad actions (or better and best), override and suppress socially unacceptable responses, and determine similarities and differences between things or events. The frontal lobes also play an important part in retaining longer term memories which are not task-based. These are often memories associated with emotions derived from input from the brain's limbic system. The frontal lobe modifies those emotions to generally fit socially acceptable norms.

Allan told us that recovery would be long and difficult and, possibly, incomplete. David didn't hear any of that. He heard that he would be back on stage. I heard: It might buy him time to see his daughter graduate. He spent a few weeks in a rehabilitation hospital. That time was marked by intense duress -- heartbreak for those who loved him -- disappointment and excruciating frustration for him -- and very trying days for his caregivers. After a couple weeks, his brain, upon healing in its miraculous way, provided David the wear-with-all to fight back -- to walk. To gain strength. To acquire mobility. He walked. He walked up and down stairs. He managed to equalize his moods and his responses. They sent him home.

Though I would never rob David of his HOPE, sometimes -- dark times -- honest times -- I really believe that we should have NOT had that surgery. Because he was receiving a quasi-chemo, Avastin, his ability to heal was grossly compromised. His incision didn't heal. We were wary of any wound. He was experiencing bone loss and tooth loss due to the long-term effects of the freaking treatment. If cancer doesn't kill you, the treatment might! and does, for many a soul! Anyway ... David's incision wouldn't heal. I get very blurry with this last stuff ... but I remember an emergency appointment with a neuro-surgeon at UVA -- a kind, young, handsome guy who really didn't get it. Yeh, the incision wasn't healing. THE INCISION WASN'T HEALING. So back to Duke.

I can't remember the order of events. I might be able to piece together the story if I were to go back and refer to the insurance claims. Don't make me do that ... but David had freaking plastic surgery to help with this unhealed incision. Why in the hell did they put him through that?!? Why in the hell did I permit them to ... is the big question.
I can't recall the series of events -- really, I can't. I'm an incredibly strong person (not bragging, just saying) but all of that trauma has to dissipate to permit perseverance! David came home and returned to his stubborn pattern of brewing coffee and insisting on independence when independence was futile, causing his caregivers -- those who loved him -- greater duress and heartbreak. I knew that hospitalization -- the freaking end -- wasn't far-off. I had things to accomplish: He had insisted on and planned a graduation trip for our daughter to Paris -- with me as her escort, of course -- not knowing the concern that it caused me to leave him with our son. Somehow the two of them got through that week (God bless my son forever) and propelled us to the advent of our daughter's departure for college.

Once again, I found myself in a position where I needed to leave David to accomplish something important. This time it was taking our daughter to college. Ideally, two parents do that. Sadly, he was unable physically and mentally.

At home, his ability to stand -- to walk -- was intermittent. He refused to accept his limitations, so often fell -- unable to get up -- and was angry about it. Defiant. His fighting spirit shrouded reality and made our lives fearful and frightening and frustrating. My sweet son picked his father up countless times -- lovingly and patiently helping him back into a place of comfort and security -- his chair. Life was very tenous and difficult.

The morning of our departure, David was strangely "himself." He was very excited about her new adventure and insisted that we text him updates frequently throughout our long trip north and orientation. I texted him every hour or so -- but was met by silence. Can you imagine my dread? Can you imagine my concern for my husband and my 16 year old son? I had to consciously turn my mind off to get through the days.

When I returned home from delivering our precious child to college, I found my husband a physical wreck. I'm not even sure what the emotional/mental status of my son was -- only that he was a saint and that I would never forget his loving care of his father through those trying days. Trying days ... a gross understatement. It would be a glaring oversight not to state that his experience made his heart and soul even more beautiful and precious than before. My son is awesome.

Somehow David convinced me not to take him to the emergency room until the next day, but I knew that he was in trouble. Both of his legs were terribly swollen -- an outward sign of DVT for which he was already being treated -- and he could not stand. When we arrived at the ER the next morning, rather than fighting it and being combative with the doctors and nurses, he was calm -- at peace -- very un-David. This was a strong sign that he was not "right." He was congenial during the long, drawn-out emergency room process and didn't fight admission. This drastic change in personality spoke volumes to me -- and at the same time, was a comfort. I was tired of the fighting and he wasn't fighting. It was sad and comforting all at once.

That was the beginning of David's last hospital stay. He spent about a week at the University of Virginia Medical Center without his normal angst -- without anger, fighting, disgust, frustration ... just a calm, affable, gentle spirit. I believe that was God's gift to ME.

David's doctors at Duke told me that the tumors had spread into the ventricles. Evidently, that's really bad. I was told finally and honestly that he had about 3-6 weeks ... and he lived another 5. I was also told, however, that he would gradually get more and more sleepy until he just didn't wake -- that he wouldn't eat or drink -- and he would die. David didn't do that.

I was confronted with the horrifying ordeal of deciding how he was to live his last days. Thank God, our Hospice House had an opening so that David could spend his last days in comfort with me by his side as his wife and not his nurse -- where his son could sleep at night not fearing that his father was trying to walk and then falling. (Yeh, life at home had been pretty daunting. Sometimes we were simply unable to get David up off of the floor.) Hospice House was a GIFT. David's last day in the hospital EVER was one of amazingly mixed emotion for me. It was a joy that he was leaving the hospital, even though ONE wonderful nurse had cared for his spirit, as well as his body, was with us through this big transition ... Beth. Thank you, Beth ... and thank you to a beautifully gentle ambulance crew who came to transport David to his last "home." David could no longer stand on his own, but thought he could. He affably attempted to assist them in their task, which was so lovely and very sad ... then transitioned into a more fearful place -- one that I was ineffective in assuaging. My heart broke as they closed the doors of that ambulance that transported him to the Hospice House -- and, since that day, any time I find myself following an ambulance, my heart does somersaults.

How do we survive these events in our lives? How do we wake up the next day? How do we go on?

The prayers of many loving saints ... and the unfailing grace of God.

Thursday, March 28, 2013

Tenuousness

ten·u·ous[ten-yoo-uhs] adjective 1. thin or slender in form, as a thread. 2. lacking a sound basis, as reasoning; unsubstantiated; weak; 3. thin in consistency; rare or rarefied; 4. of slight importance or significance; unsubstantia; 5. lacking in clarity, vague.

Tenous us a word that I use quite frequently in my language -- in dialogue. I have always thought its meaning to be more about weakness -- uncertainty. These definitions make me re-evaluate. Lately, I have found that a whole lot of the information that is being communicated to me seems to be quite tenuous -- lacking a sound basis; unsubstantiated -- vague. That is disheartening. I hate vagueness.

dis·heart·en [dis-hahr-tn] verb (used with object) to depress the hope, courage, or spirits of; discourage.

That stinks.

My whole philosophy has evolved into a "no more BS" kind of way of life since David died. I mean ... I have no surplus of emotional or mental energy to waste on untruth -- disingenuousness -- crap. So when I find that it's landing on my doorstep unwelcomed, it makes me take stock.

Do I want to waste my time and energy on anything that lacks sound basis or is of slight importance? No, I don't think I do. This seems to be closely related to my impatience and hope. Who wants to hope for something that is vague? That vague stuff depresses hope, courage and spirit -- it discourages. But not everyone is so enlightened. (ha) How does one bring those who actually have something with basis -- consistency -- importance and clarity to offer -- around to a less tenuous manner of being? I have no idea.

Throughout the many years that I was the wife of a brain cancer survivor, I was blessed to witness courageousness and hopeful spirit of those fighting the freaking "good fight" that exhibited the soul-deep understanding that time is short. Life is preciouss. Love is the only important thing in this world -- and they lived that way -- with an urgency and intense sincerity. So many of us simply don't live in that spirit. So many of us live in fear -- fear of rejection, fear of shame, fear of failure, fear of death, fear of being alone. If only everyone could just let go of that fear and live every moment to its fullest without tenuousness...

Life in a church seems to have a lesser degree of this disheartening element, but when it rears its head, I balk and I balk hugely. My church is where I find sanctuary -- acceptance -- love -- belonging. When my church lets me down, I am discouraged. My spirit is depressed. I am saddened. And I wonder where I can seek loveliness -- clarity and basis. I experienced a good bit of tenuousness in my own church this week and I am discouraged. So I look to others in my life -- family, friends -- even new ones -- and tonight my spirits are low. I'm feeling that none of my global prayer warriors are lifting me up right now because all is silent. I feel very alone. My spirits are low. Church people or not, we are all human and sometimes these relationships are tenuous -- and those are the times when I most need to bounce things off of a partner -- a husband -- someone who will always take my side. Instead, I sit alone in my home and write about it. With whom can I debate these things? There is nobody who is all mine -- for whom I am the most important person in the world. I feel bereft and alone and angry.

Do those of you out there who have a spouse or someone who cares about everything that's going on in your life know what a treasure you have? Someone who showers you with attention and shows you affection? Who listens to your joys and worries and sees your weaknesses and loves you anyway? You are very blessed. Thank that person and do better if you're not doing very well on your side of things.

I'm existing in this transitional time of my life -- and I have no idea where the evolution will end up. Will I just be a more independent, somewhat happier single middle-aged person finding purpose in this life of mine? Will I be a surprisingly more emotionally dependent woman resting in the affection of someone -- trusting and enjoying? Will I be a spunky grandmother who somehow manages to stay healthy? Will I be a world traveller? Will I be a published writer? Will I find a vocation in the church? Who knows. I just pray that my path lacks tenuousness -- instead, that it be defined by the antithesis: importance; substance. I'm so impatient to discover what that's going to be!!

So, in the interim, I'm exploring a bunch of new music. One song that inspired my blog title is by Andrew Bird. I like a lot of his stuff, but this song is weird! See if you can make any sense of these lyrics!

Tenuousness
Andrew Bird

Love of hate acts as an axis
Love of hate acts as an axis
First it wanes and then it waxes
So procreate and pay your taxes

Tenuousness, less seven comes to three
Them, you, us plus eleven
Thank the heavens for their elasticity
And as for those who live and die for astronomy

When coprophagia was writ
Know when to stand or when to sit
Can't stand to stand, can't stand to sit
And who would want to know this?
Click, click, click

Who wants to look upon this?
Who wants to look upon this pray tell?
Who wants to look upon this?
Who wants to look upon this pray tell, pray tell?

Tenuousness, less seven comes to three
Them, you, us plus eleven comes just shy of infinity
And as for those who live and die from numerology

What????

Thursday, March 21, 2013

Impatience ... HOPE

Though I can be an exceptionally leisurely person, I think I'm sort of impatient when it comes right down to it ... intrinsically impatient. According to my late husband, this was most often an undesirable trait. I'm not sure I agree -- or ever agreed, though in certain circumstances I am sure impatience can be a negative thing.

im·pa·tient [im-pey-shuhnt] adjective 1. not patient; not accepting delay, opposition, pain, etc., with calm or patience. 2. indicating lack of patience (um ... duh); 3. restless in desire or expectation; eagerly desirous.

Once I make my mind up about something, I'm ready to act. I suppose I want everyone else to get on-board, too. Yeh, that doesn't happen very often, so then I become frustrated. (That's a whole other topic, or is it?) Anyway, I was formerly a do-er. I think being a do-er again may be in my future, but I'm not there yet. I'm still in the recovery stage of looking around and noting what NEEDS to be done, agonizing over how I'm not doing it, then letting myself off of the hook. I still have paintings stowed being the sofa from maybe 2007 -- when we had the house re-piped. They had to knock holes into a couple walls and all over the kitchen ceiling. Those holes are patched, but were never primed and painted. David didn't do it. I didn't do it. Then he got sick again and then he died and I've just never handled it. Same with the deck. It has needed to be sealed -- stained -- whatever for a while now. The house and sidewalks need to be pressure-washed. One bathroom has the wallpaper partially removed and another has sagging towel racks that just need anchors for a couple screws. I can do these things. I'm a handyman ... but I have not done these things. Strangely, my impatience hasn't crept in enough to force my hand on these issues. I am beginning to be very embarrassed by them, however, so maybe soon ... 'ish.

Some things can be "done" without involving manual labor. I find that the polity in the church slows progress to a crawl sometimes. My pragmatism sees this as inefficiency and drives me crazy. Committee work is slow. That's where the frustration can come in. I also believe that people can love each other more efficiently. That sounds kind of strange, but what I mean is that when we feel something, we should express it. If we think something, we should share it. So much love and edifying stuff goes wasted because people are too afraid to put their emotions out there for people to see. Sad, but true. We all do it. We protect ourselves from taking risks, but so often rob others of our blessing.

frus·trat·ed [fruhs-trey-tid] adjective 1. disappointed; thwarted.

Uh huh. Impatience and frustration are very closely related, at least with me. I am disappointed rather easily. This is something that I dislike about my psyche and something I really wish I could change about myself. How does one go about doing that? How can I keep myself from being disappointed? I'm working on it -- intentionally deciding to have fewer expectations. It seems to work academically, but not practically. I truly respond emotionally and I can be very hurt when I am disappointed. That's the part I would like to discard -- the hurt. On the other hand, if I were successful in doing that, I would be a different woman. I would not love as deeply as I love. I would be less thoughtful, less mindful, less considerate of others in my life -- and I don't want that! So can I find some sort of balance?

I can't help it. I have expectations. Don't we all?

ex·pec·ta·tion [ek-spek-tey-shuhn] noun 1. the act or the state of expecting: to wait. 2. the act or state of looking forward or anticipating. 3. an expectant mental attitude; 4. something expected; a thing looked forward to. 5. a prospect of future good.

I'm waiting
I'm waiting on You, Lord
And I am hopeful
I'm waiting on You, Lord
Though it is painful
But patiently, I will wait       
~John Waller

What would a world without expectations be like? I shudder to consider such a world. Nothing would ever get done with any care or keeping. There would be no kindnesses or surprises to be anticipated -- no future good realized. Okay, but people let each other down. They don't often behave they way we expect -- or the way we hope -- they will. They don't always do or say the things that would bless us or simply bring us joy. This can be very disappointing. I, for one, experience sorrow when I'm disappointed emotionally. Mindfulness -- thoughtfulness -- consideration for each other across the board could really be improved, I think.

So after contemplating expectation, it seems that it should be and ok thing. Why, then, am I so often disappointed that I wish to do away with all of my expectations? Have I been let-down that much in life? Hmph. On so many different levels ... yes, I have. Mostly in my relationships. David always thought my (primarily emotional) expectations of friends and family -- and of him -- were often too high. These expectations mainly involved communication. But I never expected more than I gave and that was the catch. If I did-away with my expectations, I would not offer as much of myself to those I care about. It's the metaphorical "double-edged sword."

Mercifully, though, David was a great communicator. I was talking to a friend about love languages the other night and had a sort of realization. Though David didn't speak my primary love language very well sometimes, he was somewhat fluent in it from a unique angle. He continuously reminded me that he loved me, that he missed me, that he had affection for me -- through various means of contact. He was a bit of a techie, so this meant a continous stream of texts, emails and phone calls -- not only when he was out of town, which was over a third of the time -- but even on days when he was home and one of us was "out." It used to be a joke at church how many texts I would get during Sunday School from David, misbehaving in church, waiting to sing his songs. Though it wasn't conventional "quality time," he never let me forget that he was thinking of me. THAT WAS HUGE. He wouldn't sit in the kitchen with me when I made dinner, or jump in to make the salad. He didn't like going for walks or gardening with me. But he was consistent with the "I love you's" and the "I miss you's" and "Wait 'til I tell you about this crazy lady in the airport's." I miss those texts the most.

But not to divinify the dead ... David knew that withholding that kind of love was a very effective kind of penalty. If we were fighting and phone calls were useless -- ending in angry stalemates -- we would resort to email. If he held-off on a reply, it was excruciating. I was so impatient to hear what his response was to what I had written -- you know, emotional stuff. It could be very painful -- and very frustrating when our communicating was fruitless. That was a very sad circumstance of frequent separations and sometimes emotions could run high -- run rampant -- and our marriage did suffer some from the cumulative postponement of important relationship stuff. Impatience. Frustration. Disappointment. Expectation.

Hope ... expecting good. David was all about hope. He wrote about hope. He talked about hope. He lived hope. He shared hope. But his hope was different from mine, in a way. It's hard to define. He knew he had a home waiting for him up above. But what was his "hope?" I think it was truly to survive; to survive the cancer. My hope was to grow old with him; to some day see the end of the travel and the separation -- to just be. Neither one of us saw those hopes realized.

So what now? I'm the one who's still here ... living. Will I discover my true vocation in the second half of my life? What might that be? Will I maybe love again -- differently -- but deeply? I know that I hope for a growing family to be near. I hope that there will be no more untimely loss. I hope for joy. I hope for the energy to fix the broken things in my home. I hope to return to some of the things that I used to love doing.

I feel impatience while waiting for all of these things to happen, but it's a more seasoned impatience ... one with less frustration and disappointment -- one with expectation of something good: Hope. I went for a run today (walked a lot ...) and was listening to daughter mix 2 on my ipod. Two songs nagged at me about this idea of living fully -- embracing expectation and hope. One was a Phish song and goes, "We want you to be happy, don't live inside the gloom. We want you to be happy, come step outside your room. We want you to be happy 'cause this is your song too."
(Joy, Trey Anastasio, Tom Marshall) Wow. Yeh. The other song was by Switchfoot and I've always loved this song because it says the same thing I have always thought: Don't settle for mediocre. Sometimes we have to endure stuff for a time, but in the end:

When I'm up with the sunrise
I want more than just blue skies.
I want more than just ok, more than just ok.

I'm not giving up, giving up, not giving up now.
I'm not giving up, giving up, not backing down.

More than fine, more than bent on getting by.
More than fine, more than just ok.
~Jon Foreman

How many times have I replied "I'm ok." or "I'm FINE." to the question, "How are you, Leslie?" Ugh. I'm tired of just getting by!! And I've done that pretty well for a long time. So where is the joy? Where is the happiness? Where is the fun?

I'm still waiting. Impatiently. Sometimes frustrated. Sometimes expectant. Often disappointed. Yet, still hopeful. Sigh.

Share Hope
Everybody has a different burden
Could be a weight upon your shoulder or a storm inside your head
Everybody's lost a precious angel
Mother, Father, brother daughter, or someone else instead
Everybody's trying to find the reason
Thinking it will help them learn to cope
But the only way anyone gets stronger
Is when they learn to share, Share hope
Hope is not a fragile emotion
It's not a candle burning softly in the night
It's more like a blazing bonfire
Shattering the darkness with its light
Hope is not a sweet and subtle feeling
It's not a whisper trying to find a voice
It's more like a deep resounding chorus
Anyone can sing but you gotta make the choice
Sometimes it takes a little courage
It ain't easy climbing up that slippery slope
But when you finally do and discover it is true You wanna share, hope
It's not a magic pill or a superstitious spell
And it never ever ever stands alone
It's a kind of power that binds us all together
Goes into the jungle and brings you safely home
You can share your supper with the hungry
You can share your money with the poor
You can share your laughter with the lonely
You can share all of this and more
You can share your wisdom with the foolish
You can share your prayers with the Lord above
You can share your faith with the faithless
You can share your joy , yes and you can share your love
No matter who you are, no matter where you go
No matter how you get there, No matter what you know
I’m telling you the truth and it's more than just a dare
The way for us to love is to share, share hope        ~david m. bailey

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Fear ... and the departure thereof

The infinite surge of the ocean is hypnotic. I love the Atlantic ocean. It's gray and cold and angry -- with an unexpected element of comfort ... that perpetual reliability. It will always send forth the next wave. When I can get to a place where I'm just sitting quietly, hypnotized by the waves that keep advancing like a faceless army, I find myself encouraging each swell. You can make it all the way up here to me -- you can go further than that last surge. I begin to personify the waves. Like I said, hypnotic: Mesmerizing ... rhythmic ... soothing.

It's quiet at the beach in February. Few flock to the shore in the winter time, though my family always has. I love it. I took a walk several nights ago -- in a stinging rain, near hurricane force gusts and a strange fog. It was energizing -- awakening. Just a few years ago, I would have been fearful of the power of the ocean in the dark. Really -- I was too afraid to walk down to the ocean in the dark! But now I feel like I am brought alongside of such a force of nature -- like an equal -- escorted down the sand. I am not afraid! It's cool. Tonight, I miss the ocean. But I do not miss fear.

I'm not quite sure how I came to be more fearless than before -- and I believe I was quite a fearful person. Maybe more like a scaredy-cat. I mean, you don't endure the experiences I have and come out the other side a coward. I'm no coward. But I have always been a scardey-cat ... though I've always fought it ... hard. Do scaredy-cats become the drum major of the marching band? Take one of the leading roles in the senior musical? Marry men like David? NO THEY DON'T. So what do I mean when I say I've always been a scardey-cat? Let me ponder this.

I was always the new kid in school. Can you recall that feeling of walking into a room where everyone already knows each other -- but you don't. You don't know a soul. You don't know the routine. You don't know where the bathroom is. You don't know where to sit. You don't know anything. And you feel sick to your stomach -- nervous -- scared. I experienced that eight times, not including the first day of college -- and even then, I wasn't just like the others. I was a freaking commuter, so had skipped all the orientation crap. The new kid. Not the norm. Fear -- undergirded by an inexplicable self-awareness that made me fight. But I took a job in downtown Washington, DC. What? It took all the courage I could muster to do that. It wasn't exciting for me, it was HARD. I was afraid. I've always been afraid, but have done all sorts of risky kind of things ... I don't even understand myself.

The last couple years I have been pondering my life and I've pretty much determined that I've been a fearful person for much of it. That's rather deflating. I mean I thought I was living bravely! My mother died and yet I finished college without missing a beat. And I mean it -- it was no act of cowardice diving into a love affair with a guy who lived through a war, was captured and interrogated by I'm not even sure who -- almost dragged me into covert operations to Tripoli (key word is almost) -- and served as the undergirding for a 14 year career in the hope and survival vocation of a person marked by God and wanted by so many in so many ways. It wasn't just the brain cancer rollercoaster -- but the charisma and the idolatry. The aloneness and the living in the shadows ... and then there was the hardcore medical stuff -- no fun. No ride for the fearful ... and the aftermath -- the loss. The total destruction of my life as I knew it.

And yet here I am -- vertical. Getting up every day living my life -- to the degree to which I am able a day at a time -- raising two enormously amazing kids who continue to stun me with their own courageousness and brillance and independence ... Fearfully? I have wonderously discovered over the last 2 plus years that I have shed that stupid scardey-cat'ness. It really seems to be gone. Why and how?

I can not count the number of saints who have told me that they pray for me regularly. REGULARLY. First of all, that's entirely humbling. I'm amazed that people even think of me enough to pray for me ever -- but to pray for me regularly?! Wow. That's so wonderful and I thank them and instantaneously realize and acknowledge that it is because of their prayers that I stand! That I wake and rise and live my life at all! My gratitude is too great to measure. Do their prayers also push aside this fear that has been my lifemate and give me liberty therefrom? I think so! I don't feel like I have to fight to be me anymore. I feel like I can simply ... be me. And I am sad because it took 48 years to happen! That it took all this trauma and all this survivor stuff to get here. I want my kids to just be who they are with no fear! and I think they are. I think I've hidden my scaredey-cat'ness from them such that they haven't assumed that stupid, sad, wasteful cloak that I've worn most of my life. Thank you, God, that they are just them.

So why does it matter now? I really am not afraid. Sometimes I worry about money -- about my future. Of course I "worry" about my kids' safely -- their good health -- their decisions and choices -- but I'm not really afraid anymore. I find myself moving into new situations without that old friend cautioning me and chiding me -- I find I walk taller -- smile more fully -- question stupid stuff up front! Where did that come from? Age? Experience? Trauma? Survival? Independence? A combination, of course ... but I like it.

I don't know what's next. I hope I can pay the bills I have waiting for me here on the desk. Hmmm. I got new shoes -- platform sandals, encouraged by college girlies -- and they make me feel young(er) and pretty brave. I fearlessly walked into a bar a few weeks ago and actually talked to strangers -- gasp. Who is this and what have I done with myself? I'm living my life, possibly for the first time ever just for me -- and it's exciting and not as scary as I thought. Don't get me wrong -- I loved my life as a wife and mom -- and I'll always be a mom -- but right now, it's just me and my dog -- and God. I'm kinda having fun exploring this new world. Of course I'm still "me," so there will never be any over the top wild stuff, but still, I feel a little more bold in new ways -- less difficult ways. Bravery and courageousness that is required is way different. This is a liberating kind of bravery -- more self-ISH than self-LESS. I can dabble in that for a while, right? Bring it on.

Monday, February 25, 2013

Under Pressure

Lately I've been experiencing an odd sense of being. That sounds awkward, but I'm not quite sure how to phrase this. I feel a little different than even just a month ago. I'm not sure why or when or how, but something is changed. David died two years and four months ago. That is a long time, but it doesn't really feel that long. On the other hand, he hasn't been in my midst for a long time. I'm not making any sense at all. Let me try again. Last night I had a sort of epiphany. It happened while walking along the ocean with a friend, discussing everything that women will discuss. It occurred to me that, perhaps, I'm finally moving out of what was old and into what is new. Ha. Even more cryptic, right?

When I was married to David, (well, when my husband was living, because much of the time I still "feel" married, but sometimes I don't anymore ...) I was a wife -- a cleaved one. I was also me, but I no longer lived just for myself. Gibran wrote about this in his thoughts "On Marriage."

You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days.
Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

Love one another, but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.
                                                  - Kahlil Gibran, from The Prophet

I don't agree with everything Gibran wrote, but most of it is beautiful. "Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music. ... And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow." Sadly, I think that our lives' circumstances caused me to surely grow in David's shadow, at least from time to time ...

Then I became a mother and my life was hugely changed. Being a wife and a mother sort of requires that you reform. You're the same person, but living with new and exciting priorities and obligations.

Because I was a wife and mother I was always a caregiver, but when David was diagnosed, I became a different kind of caregiver. Throughout the last few years of his life, being a caregiver became pretty much the whole of my existence. And when he died, suddenly that mostly went away. Yeh, dealing with the business of death took the better part of a year and I still handle the business end of his music as well as brain tumor inquiries and requests, but the day to day intensity of his medical, practical and emotional care ended. Along with that, however, waned the adrenalin that had kept me going. I found myself in an unfamiliar state of peace ... and deep grief, then hibernation.

As of this past fall, I discovered that I was almost kind of finished being a caregiver. Sure, my kids still need parenting and will need parenting, but the level of care given is declining, as it should. I am not responsible for getting a kid up and to school, for making lunches, for being on-call, for being home when they're home, for making dinner, doing laundry, meeting with teachers, attending concerts ... I'm on my own with my own schedule. I haven't been in this situation for 26 years. Secretly, it's delightfully liberating. I do love having my children in my midst and am excited for them to come home next week for spring break, but it's gratifying to realize that I'm good with nature's turning of time. Rather than wallowing in a bereft'ness because they're not home, I'm accepting it and rejoicing that they are independent and happy and doing well! I'm not sure how or why I've found myself in this emotional state, but I'm not going to question it. I'm even feeling a little happy! It's sort of like a trophy -- a medal to hang around my neck for a job well-done. Their success is a reflection of all that caregiving.

And now .... I don't want to make my kids shudder, but lately I've been noticing men noticing me. I'm trying to figure out if this has been going on all these years and I was just oblivious to it. You know ... I was very married, so the rebuffing of even the thought of welcoming that visual connection (eye contact) -- that second take -- that spontaneous smile -- was subconscious. Then, when David died, I felt like everyone could envision the metaphorical black veil that covered my face and my spirit, so I wasn't getting a glimpse of anything through all that darkness. But, honestly, now I am noticing men. Do I have a newly-revealed charm -- charisma -- that is emanating from within me? Some days I feel like I do! Some days I feel like I can extract any response that I want. (Today I was given a beach souvenir gratis. I'm serious!) It's a startling revelation, yet one cast with shadows of familiarity. I was married for a long time -- half of my life. I forsook all of this, whatever you call it, a long time ago. But it's no longer necessary to eschew it and, as I feel less and less married, the mentality of singleness is creeping back into my consciousness. You'd think for a scaredy-cat like me, this would all be a little daunting. Instead, I'm finding it to be a little exhilarating. Of course I know myself and I'm not gonna' do anything reckless (darn), but it's fun to hang-out along the outskirts, dangling a toe into the other side here and there.

Something undetermined ... unspecified is bubbling up within me – like lava, dormant, yet simmering, lying just beneath the surface -- beginning to swirl and flow. My chest swells with this wondrous sensation, but I have no outlet for it! I feel like I suddenly possess an undefined passion -- an uncontained, big love -- in need of a path for expression. Sometimes I feel like I can no longer contain it – like I’m going to burst with untamed whatever! It is exciting and frustrating all at once.

pas·sion [pash-uhn] noun: 1. any powerful or compelling emotion or feeling, as love or hate.

Passion for what? How, now, do I love people ... and stuff like music and nature -- life ... my life? It's almost like I have permission to remake it -- to re-form it -- to the extent that I may wish, because I have the freedom to do so for the first time in as long as I can remember ... maybe ever. I've never been in a place where I could just do whatever I wanted to do! I attended my second choice college because of money (but I don't bemoan that at all -- my kids would not exist, as I would never have met and fallen in love with David), then I went straight to work in a job provided for me (for which I was thankful and always will be), then almost immediately into marriage, making decisions about my life in tandem with and in consideration of David. My next job was dictated by economics, as was where I lived. Raising children kept me (happily) grounded at home -- and supporting David in his vocation required it. He travelled so much that I had no choice but to be the "rock" that kept the home fires burning ... and I was [mostly] happy to do so. But now ... you see? If I so choose, I can do whatever I want to do. The rock is becoming molten -- fluid. It's an alien circumstance. It's kind of wonderful.

By nature, I am a careful person. I consider every facet of a situation, especially how others are affected by choices made. I am pragmatic. I am sensible. But deep down ... where that lava is heating up and casting an orange glow on everything, I feel brave. Not the kind of brave that it took to survive 14 years of brain cancer. A different, undaunted kind of brave that is not a requirement, but a freedom.

I'm taking pleasure in the contemplation of all of this newness and will continue to meditate on it -- this unleashed something ... and the myriad of new ways to love -- to express the swelling pool of undefined, unformed passion.

Lyrics from a Mumford and Sons song expresses my feelings rather plainly.

... We will run and scream
You will dance with me
They'll fulfill our dreams
And we'll be free

And we will be who we are
And they'll heal our scars
Sadness will be far away

Do not let my fickle flesh go to waste
As it keeps my heart and soul in its place
And I will love with urgency but not with haste

                                            ~ Not With Haste