Grateful and Gallbladder-less

Have you seen that meme?  The one that says, “Welcome to your 40s! If you don’t yet have a mysterious ailment, one will be assigned to you shortly.”  Well, it’s funny because it feels true. 

This is an account of gratitude regarding my own mysterious ailment.  TL;DR I’m now short one gallbladder and I’m counting my blessings. 

I suffered off and on with a mysterious ailment for several years but my doctors didn’t find the source of my symptoms.  One doctor practically threw the book of lab orders at me, but after testing for (what felt like) everything including lupus, Lyme disease, West Nile virus, H. Pylori, HIV, parasites, and all the “normal” things, the only thing that ever showed up was cytomegalovirus (CMV), and that appeared to be a past infection.  She ruled out IBD and stopped short of diagnosing IBS. 

A few months ago when some symptoms flared up after a long hiatus, my sister told me she thought I had a bad gallbladder. 

I had some symptoms that overlap those for colon cancer.  Since I do have some family history, I decided to go ahead with a colonoscopy and scheduled one with Dr R, who came recommended to me by someone close.  Thank God, it was clear, no polyps, and I can wait five years for the next one.  Dr R said he doesn’t do any surgeries anymore other than colo-rectal, but he would order imaging for my abdomen. 

Immediately I was scheduled for an abdominal ultrasound and a week or so later, Dr R said it does appear that I have gallstones.  The only cure for that is cholecystectomy (removal of the gallbladder).  He was trying to decide which surgeon to refer, so he asked me whether I like girl or boy doctors, and I responded, “Competent ones.”

So he referred me to Dr C, a lovely woman who agreed that with what we do know, it is a good idea to remove the gallbladder, and I should not feel like I have to wait for the next flare up.  She performs these on Thursdays.  There’s never a good time to schedule something like this so I chose the first Thursday that I would have a chance to be off work for a week without conflicting with things I already had on the calendar. 

Yesterday morning I checked in at the hospital.  KR is old enough now that Mike and I left her still sleeping and after I finished registration he went home to help her get off to the school bus. 

Upstairs my pre-op nurse, Anna, was very friendly and I appreciated her openness as she struggled a bit to get my IV started.  She told me if the third time wasn’t a charm she would have someone else try.  The most painful attempt turned out to be the charm.  She joked with me and I was very comfortable considering I had never had surgery before. 

My OR nurse, Jessica, was also friendly and she helped me go to the bathroom just before the surgery.  I had to walk down the hallway in my gown, with my IV in and leg sleeves on.  When I returned successfully we chatted about our work.  She said she likes her job as an OR nurse, but because she has never had surgery herself, her work makes her feel curious about what it feels like to have surgery (not that she necessarily wants to find out, though).  I said I know what she means.  I work for a pension system and my work makes me feel curious about what it feels like to be retired (though I do hope to find out someday)!

Then I met Dr P, my anesthesiologist.  She has a very direct manner but was very thorough, explaining exactly what medicines she would be giving me, when, and why. She answered all of my questions. 

Then my surgeon, Dr C, arrived.  The two doctors were immediately conversing about a personal matter and she quickly clued me in, telling me that the two of them have been best friends for 30 years.  How blessed am I?  Knowing this pair of doctors work so well together, I knew I was in good hands. 

When we got to the OR, I didn’t feel nervous scooching off the bed and onto the table.  Dr P had intended to administer something to relax me before wheeling me into the OR, but for some reason it didn’t happen.  But I wasn’t anxious. 

On the advice of a friend I had called my parish office and received a visit from one of our priests the day before surgery.  He prayed, heard my confession, gave me absolution, communion, and anointed my forehead, and palms and feet in the places where Jesus was nailed to the cross.  I felt so much less anxious after receiving the three sacraments and that peace stayed with me. 

Dr P had said I might feel certain sensations as the medications were starting.  But I really don’t remember anything after getting comfortable on the table.  I never experienced those uncomfortable sensations.  I woke up in recovery. 

My husband was brought in once I was starting to wake up.  I had to try really hard to wake up.  But eventually I did, and Mike helped me dress and got me into the wheelchair. 

We had one problem getting the pharmacy to fill my prescription for pain medicine.  But I left a message for Dr C’s medical assistant and before I knew it, she had called the pharmacy to straighten it out and then called Mike’s phone. 

So I’m home, resting, and grateful for so much it’s boggling to try to list all the reasons.  But I’ll try. 

My husband is a great person, a loving husband and father, who is so generous with his care. He is not afraid to help me with anything I need and I am blessed to have a husband I am not afraid to ask for anything I need. 

I have medical insurance and it is subsidized by my employer.  Yes, it feels like it’s expensive even subsidized.  But, I know we’re lucky to have costs this low.  And this whole experience was covered by my plan, as was my colonoscopy. 

I have access to really good doctors.  And my surgery coordinator, the hospital staff who called me before the surgery and to follow up with me today, and all the staff and nurses I interacted with have been great. 

I am employed, and I have sick leave such that I don’t have to worry about losing income while being off work to recover. 

My child is well and is old enough to mostly get ready for school on her own.  I don’t have to worry about being able to take care of her right now, and she is sweet to understand I need to rest. 

My sister tipped me off on the gallbladder.  Had she not recently experienced this who knows how long it would have taken for me to get to the point I’m at today.  My grandma waited until her senior days before finally having hers out. 

My colonoscopy was clear.  What a relief to know this. 

I know many people who have prayed for me.  I appreciate them so much, and I definitely feel the result of their care for me.  As I continue to heal, I pray for the strength to offer all of my pain to Jesus, to unite it with him on the cross for grace to be poured out on others. 

There must be more reasons for my gratitude that I have left out.  I hope to be able to remember them all, and bring them to mind whenever I think I have cause for complaint. 

Perspectives on #RedforEd

As the statewide teacher Walk Out draws nearer, I find myself hearing, feeling, and imagining ever more perspectives.  As a parent of an elementary school student, this situation affects me in multiple ways.  But I recognize my good fortune.  As inconvenient and disruptive this situation is, I am confident my family will get through it generally none the worse for wear.

My pointless story is not about taking sides or making a political statement.  But I have considered the following perspectives with varying degrees of sympathy and empathy.  My conclusion: no one in Arizona is completely unscathed by this situation, and the effects do indeed reach beyond our state but I would be here all day if I don't draw a line and just consider the effects within our state border.  In fact, I'm not even going to write out all of the perspectives I see that are within AZ because of the time it would take.

The spotlight (which can be both illuminating and scorching) is on our public school teachers.  I'm a product of public schools (for the most part, having attended 1st and 2nd grade at a parochial school in Houston, TX).  I've been taught by public school teachers in Houston, Metropolitan Cincinnati, and Metropolitan Atlanta.  The teachers I know in Arizona are those that are my friends and peers, and those who have taught my daughter in elementary school. 

When I look back at my K-12 experience I remember specific teachers for varying reasons.   Of course there is variance among their performance, as there is among employees within any industry.  But what is clear to me is that on the whole, teachers are human, they want their students to learn and succeed, and great teaching is an art form.

My 3rd grade teacher sure had my number.  It was as if she had a window into my brain.  While I was scheming (probably looking for a way to skimp on the work), she knew it.  She would call me out on it and redirect me in ways that were gentle but firm.  I was a very sensitive kid and she never trod on my spirit, but helped me find ways to excel.  I remember doing a research project on George Washington Carver and putting on a peanut butter taste test in class.  I remember doing (seemingly endless) work learning about the history of the great state of Texas and drawing flags for Texas, Mexico, etc. and singing "Deep in the Heart of Texas" in class.  I remember winning the grand prize in our class when she organized a Jeopardy! tournament (and in true packrat form, I kept the plastic trophy for 30 years), and I remember her beaming smile as she congratulated me.  And I remember she gave me a book she thought I would like, Caddie Woodlawn, as a gift because she knew I was moving to Ohio before starting 4th grade.

In 4th grade, in a new state, I found it hard to fit in.  I was an overweight kid and I was short, so I was horrified when I discovered I weighed 100 lbs.  My teacher seemed overweight too, so I felt comfortable talking to her about it.  I confided to my teacher that I was starting a diet to lose weight.  Looking back I know she didn't know how to help me but she listened and she was concerned for me.  It was the mid-80s and we didn't know as much as we do now about food and health.  She knew I loved to read and she lent me a novel that (although I can't recall the title) I read and loved.  I was excited because it was a "grown up" book, probably 400 pages long, and well above the 4th grade reading level.

In the first two years of middle school, I remember three teachers.  Two were my math teachers: the first one spoke to us with enthusiasm and smiled when he taught.  It was contagious and to this day I love how easy it is to convert units within the metric system because of the way he taught it to us.  The second decided to try an experiment that year: teaching us without issuing us textbooks.  I was intimidated by him because he was not smiling and friendly like the first one - he always seemed serious and I couldn't tell if he was smiling under his mustache, but I doubted he ever did.  His experiment failed me and I ended up with my first (and only) D on a report card.  My mom and I had a meeting with him and he tutored me after that so I could bring up my grade.  It surprised me that he didn't realize I was intimidated by him, and when we met with him I realized he was human and he did care.  All I saw before that was gruff Mr. Mustache.  When we moved to Georgia that summer, my new school refused to place me in pre-algebra for 8th grade because of my math grades.  But my mom insisted I was capable, so they let me take a placement test.  I got to take pre-algebra in 8th grade - Mom was right.

The other teacher I remember was my English teacher, who was rigid and unkind to me.  I felt like she didn't like me.  I have no idea if there was any truth to that, but that was my perspective as an 11-year-old.  One of my strongest memories of her class was the delight of disruption that came with excessive snow days.

As I got older, and we had different teachers for different classes, I didn't develop strong bonds with most of them as I did when I was in elementary school.  It seemed like part of surviving high school was joining in with others as they found a reason to laugh about the way particular teachers were.  I don't remember the real name of a history teacher who was bald, because my friend and I secretly called him Cue Ball.  He was kind of a no-nonsense guy (Vietnam vet maybe?) but I remember appreciating him - he did make me learn, he made history compelling, and for all his entertaining drill-sergeant style rants, he did show a kind, caring human side when it counted. 

I'll never forget my Latin teacher, not only because I took her classes nearly every quarter of my four years of high school, but because I will always think of her as the absolute paradigm for kindness, compassion, empathy, and sweetness.  She had a very Southern drawl but she was serious about teaching us to pronounce Latin correctly.  And she had a horrible, debilitating health condition that kept her out of the classroom so much that she became my mental example of how bad things happen to good people.

I'm not a certified teacher.  I don't work for a school.  But what if I did?  How would I decide whether to join this movement and communicate that I am willing to participate in a Walk Out --not only to my peers, but to my employer?  What if I lose my job?  What if I lose my certification?  What if I'm living paycheck to paycheck?  Or, what if I'm okay financially, but my (our) action causes my coworker(s) who don't want to participate in this to lose their job and they are one toe above the poverty line?  What if I was scheduled to retire and now I have to push that back?  What if we had a big celebration planned, or what if my child is getting married and now I'm supposed to be working when I was planning to help, or travel for the wedding?  What about my students who are vulnerable if school is out?  Will they be able to eat?  Will this cause them to fall into trouble?  Will it make them stop trusting me and will they lose all the progress they've made this year?  Am I doing the wrong thing?

How about the administrators?  How will we manage to reschedule classes?  What about summer school?  Graduation?  How about programs that work with community colleges for dual enrollment, or what happens with AP exams?  How do we support our staff through this?  Or how do we handle this if our leadership does not support our staff through this?

If I'm a parent who can't take off work when my child's school is unexpectedly closed, what will I do if my kids aren't old enough to stay home alone and I don't have friends or family who can watch them?  Where will I get the extra money to put them in a day camp when all the free ones are full?  How can I get them there if I don't have a car or there's no public transportation to the location?  Should I trust a pop-up day camp that some church has opened up?  Who vetted these volunteers?  What if someone isn't safe and something bad happens to my child?  What if I don't have a sack lunch for them to bring?  What if I can't speak English?  Who will help me?

If I'm a teenage student and I'm supposed to take a trip this summer right after the school year was scheduled to end, now what do I do?  Or what if I have a summer job all lined up and now I won't be able to start working when I'm supposed to?  Will I get fired?  What if my family is depending on me to work and bring income into our household?  What if I'm on my own and/or in the foster care system?  What if I'm supposed to take a summer school class at a college and it starts before the extended school year ends?  What if I have a plane ticket to visit my parent or family in another state?  Will I lose money?  What if my family is moving and we can't change our plans?  Will I not pass?  Will I lose credits?  Will I not graduate?  What if I just enlisted in the military and I'm supposed to go to boot camp right after school was supposed to end?

What if I'm a business owner and I employ high school students, or parents who can't come in to do their job because they are suddenly without child care options?  What if I can't afford to be short-staffed and I have to let my employees go because they're in an impossible situation and can't show up to work? 

What if I'm losing money because I run a summer business or program that has to be canceled?

What if I'm just a taxpayer and I don't have kids or grandkids?  How will this seem fair if my peers or coworkers end up getting special consideration for their situation, like preference for adjusting their vacation time, flexible work hours, or approval for teleworking when I am not granted the same opportunities?  What if I'm a manager trying to handle a diverse staff, seeking to maintain fairness and equity among my staff?

What if I'm in office, trying to bring a resolution forward that may work, and I can't get my fellow legislators and the governor on board?

These questions only begin to scratch the surface of what we and people all around us are going through.

With all of my history as a student, I can imagine what my daughter is seeing and thinking and feeling about this Walk Out.  Although her experience this year has been disruptive because her teacher had to abruptly retire after January, I don't think that teacher or any of the substitutes she's had have ever lacked concern for her and her learning.  She may be happy about a change in the routine, she may be hesitant about being "happy" about it because she knows it might extend the school year.  But what I've tried to do is explain what I know about why this is happening, including giving her a sense of the terrible position her teachers are in right now.  I speak support and positivity to her teachers and staff with her in front of me, so she can see my example and know that this is not easy for them and we understand that.  And it's not okay to be disrespectful no matter what side of the fence we stand on and regardless of who's involved in the conversation (in public or at home).

The fact is, though, that my daughter is safe and cared for, whether school is in session or not.  She has the luxury to not worry about breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks, food on the weekend, and where it might come from or if it doesn't come.  She has two parents who both work, but whose employment situations do provide some flexibility here, and fear of losing a job because of the Walk Out is not part of our conversation right now.  She has grandparents and relatives who live in the area and have stable living situations, and there may be options and support for her because that family exists.  What's more, we don't have any major summer plans that will be destroyed by this situation.

I'm not saying people shouldn't take a stand or voice their opinion.  But I am saying everyone, and I mean everyone, is affected by the Walk Out.  Please keep this in mind as we navigate this uncharted territory.

My Grandma, Leila

Originally posted in September 2013

Sorry y'all, it's been a really long time.  I have thought about writing some pointless stories, but haven't gotten around to it--I'm pretty busy living them out in daily life.  But I recently attended a fundraising kickoff for the ALS Association's Walk to Defeat ALS.  And that's how I ended up here, writing a pointless story for you.  Except this one kinda has a point - it just takes extra long to get there.

Eleven years ago I got married.  I was thrilled that both of my living grandparents were able to attend: my mom's mom, Leila, and my dad's dad, Fred.  Not long before my wedding, I talked to my grandma a couple of times on the phone.  Something seemed strange about the way she was talking, as if she was having a hard time making her words come out.

By the time she came out to Arizona for my wedding in June, she had also been having some issues with one of her legs.  I can't remember if she thought the problem was her knee or her ankle, but something was going on.

I traveled to Indiana two months later to attend my cousin's wedding.  Since my new husband wasn't able to make it, I had the opportunity to stick to Grandma like she was my date.  Her symptoms seemed to be a little worse, and I remember trying to help her through the buffet line and getting up to get things for her, like a piece of wedding cake.  It was kind of baffling what could be causing these issues, but I never could have imagined the truth.

On December 30, 2002, she received a diagnosis.  Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, or ALS, also known as Lou Gehrig's Disease.  I had heard of Lou Gehrig's Disease, but I had no inkling what it actually was.  Oh, how I wish I never knew, how I wish it never existed, how I wish it was curable - or even treatable.

In the days that followed, I learned what ALS was all about from the ALS Association website.  It's a motor neuron disease that basically leads to paralysis and death - usually when muscles used for breathing are unable to work any longer.  The kicker is that the mind is unaffected, meaning the person with ALS is completely aware of what is happening to her body.  There are two typical types of onset - one involves mobility and the other involves the mouth and speech.  Grandma seemed to have both, but her speech was gone quickly.  That made it even harder, as attempts to communicate became more difficult.

My mom could not bear the idea of sending Grandma to some nursing home or hospice to die.  With no other reasonable alternatives, the decision was made to bring Grandma to Arizona to my parents' house.  They made some modifications, including creating a new entrance to a room that became Grandma's bedroom, altering the bathroom according to recommendations from ALS Association, and dealing with the popcorn ceiling, which harbors dust and can become a breathing hazard.  At first it was difficult because while Grandma loved to see her family, she didn't necessarily want to be here.  After Grandpa died, she stayed on the farm in Indiana until her children practically forced her to move into town following an episode of severe sickness that happened when she was snowed in, alone.  Now, she wasn't even permitted to finish her life in her own home, her town, her state, or even her region of the country.

We could appreciate that this was not what she wanted, and we had no choice but to support her decisions to establish a DNR, to refuse a feeding tube, and to refuse a ventilator.  Unlike many people with ALS that I have met or heard about, Grandma did not want to fight.  She learned what this disease would do to her and wanted it to be over with as soon as possible.  Maybe she just longed to see Grandpa again, and her mom, and others who had gone to heaven before her.

I believe without a doubt that her unwillingness to fight contributed to the speed at which her ALS progressed.  I was a newlywed, working full time, and attending evening classes for my MBA.  Once she arrived in Arizona, it was already February.  I regret not finding more time to visit with her.  They said that the average person with ALS lives 2-5 years after diagnosis.  I really thought I had more time.  We made plans to participate in the ALS Association's big fundraiser, which was called Walk to D'feet ALS.  (It is now the Walk to Defeat ALS.)  The Walk was scheduled for the fall.

In the month or two before Grandma passed away, my mom's siblings came to visit her.  It was a hard time.  Mom had to hire a 24 hour nurse, who slept on their couch.  Grandma wasn't able to speak, and was losing the ability to swallow, too.  It had been some time since she was able to walk, and other simple abilities, like sitting and using her arms, were disappearing.  She had the look of someone who was suffering.

That July I had signed up for a summer elective course that was going to be all day Friday and Saturday, for two weeks.  Mom was preparing to go to the NOMOTC Convention in Albuquerque (National Organization of Mothers of Twins Clubs, Inc.) and Dad was going to drive her there.  They were leaving Saturday morning, 7/19/2003.  The Wednesday before, a bunch of us got together at their house to see Grandma.  Things were not looking good and my mom pulled me aside to give me instructions on the off chance that Grandma passed away while they were out of town.  The doctor thought she would last another few weeks, but we weren't sure what to think.

We had a good visit although it was hard for me.  For all of us, I'm sure.  I don't even remember who was there.  I had decided to make a present for Grandma - her birthday was coming up next month.  I had bought a wooden 8x10 picture frame, some pink rose paper, pink ribbon, and cardstock.  I used a calligraphy style marker and wrote as neatly as I could: "Grandma, You are so loved."  When I finished putting the materials together in the frame, it was done prior to that Wednesday.  I couldn't explain why I felt a nudge to bring it that night to give it to her early - not to wait for her birthday.  I'm so glad I listened to that feeling.

When I gave it to her, I told her I made her a present and didn't want to wait for her birthday - this way she could have it now and look at it whenever she wanted.  I positioned it so she could see it and I read it out loud to her.  She was completely immobile by then save for her eyes.  She looked at it and she looked at me.  Her facial muscles were stuck in the same expression, so I didn't have any nonverbal cues to figure out what she was thinking or what she might have wanted to say to me.  I wanted to know if she liked it, if she understood what it meant from me, if she knew there were many people who loved her and were unable to express that love to her to its real depth.  That she was important, and her life mattered!

All I had were her two eyes, looking at it, looking at me.  She gave me a long look.  One I took to be the fierce attempt to tell me she loved me and my gift meant the world to her.  And almost immediately I doubted what I thought I saw, doubted myself, inwardly chastised myself for inventing this because it's what I wanted it to be.

I tried to stay close to her during that evening.  Sometimes I put my hand on hers, and tried not to feel awkward because I wanted to hold her hand but wasn't sure if it would be uncomfortable for her - what pains she was feeling in those dying parts of her body.  I just couldn't believe how fast we had come to this point, where she was barely living and we all wanted to hold on to her.  I told her I was going to have my class on Saturday and promised to come see her as soon as it was over.

Saturday morning, I was sitting in that class.  Mom and Dad had left for Albuquerque.  My sister had left for work.  The only souls in the house belonged to Grandma, my sister's dog Wrigley, and Grandma's nurse.  After her family had left the house, Grandma decided she wanted to go to a birthday party.  A heavenly birthday party for her husband, my Grandpa, who had died in 1996.  July 19 was his birthday.

~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*

In November 2022 I will Walk to Defeat ALS for a 20th time in memory of my dear grandma.  Now, it's worse - now, I have known of more people who have had ALS, more people who have also died fighting ALS, even some my age.  ALS is still considered one of the rare and orphan diseases, but it's more common than you think.  Those fighting ALS and caring for those living with ALS need my help and yours. There is no way to know if another person I love, or even myself, will be next.

And that brings me to the reason for this story.  At the fundraising kickoff for the Walk to Defeat ALS, I learned that the walk makes up about 2/3 of the annual budget for the Arizona Chapter of the ALS Association.  The AZ ALSA provides durable medical equipment to people with ALS (PALS), it provides services to PALS and their caregivers, and ALSA funds work to find treatment and a cure.  Please join the fight if you are able.

My page:

Scottsdale Walk: 20 Years for Leila - Walk to Defeat ALS®

Thanks for reading my story.  Thanks for your prayers and words of support.  Thanks for your monetary donations to the ALS Association.  That support for ALSA is the point.

Love,

Wendy

Nostril Technician

On the way home last night, Katy Rose and I had a little conversation in the car that I decided to commit to memory so I could blog it.  This is the kind of stuff that makes me laugh and will quite possibly provide me with good material for eliciting cooperation during her teenage years.  Then again, perhaps it is merely an indication of a potential future in science or medicine.  Observation, diagnostics, experimentation, even an attempt to rate the level of pain.  Well, alright, maybe I’m overreaching a bit.  But it is, if nothing else, a brief pointless story.

Katy Rose: Mommy, my right nostril hurts.

Mommy: Does it hurt on the inside or the outside?

KR: On the inside.

M: Does it hurt all the time?  Or just when you touch it?

KR: Well, it hurts when my finger is in it.

M: Oh!  Well, problem solved – don’t put your finger in it.  I know the hole is just big enough for your finger, but that doesn’t mean you should put your finger in it.

KR: Well, it also hurts if I push on the outside like this, or if I go like this (rubs nose back and forth with back of hand) to itch it.  Can you see in it?  Is it pink?  I think we should get the thermometer when we get home.  My other one, the left nostril doesn’t really hurt.  But my right nostril hurts like a hippo sitting on my belly!

M: Hmm… maybe you shouldn’t touch it at all then.

Tales from the Potty: Church Time & Sucker Punches

For some welcome change around here, I actually have a little funny story for today’s Pointless Story Hour.  In case you’ve forgotten that these are pointless stories, this entry will remind you because we have a long way to go to the little, funny part.  You know you love it.

It all started in high school . . . (insert flashback harp strings sequence here)

When I was a shy high school student, I learned that my greatest fear was not, as I had previously imagined, death by fire.  Nor drowning, nor large spiders.  My greatest fear was realized in the term of English classes designated Speech Class.  I was terribly afraid of having to stand up and talk in front of a whole class, and quickly sought to identify classmates who were worse at public speaking than I was.  It’s not that I was unfriendly or antisocial.  It’s that I was mortified of being The Worst Public Speaker.  I was the girl whose yearbook inscriptions historically contained gems like:

“Wendy: You’re so sweet and quiet.”

“Wendy: Wow, Latin was hard this year.  Have a great summer.”

“Wendy: You are so quiet.  You should talk more.”

So I struggled through the class, and got a little better each time I had to deliver a speech or a monologue.  But I came to realize that my fear of public speaking…well, it sucked.  I didn’t like being afraid of this.  I felt like it was something that would dog me my whole adulthood if I didn’t do something about it.

At the end of my sophomore year of high school, I got involved with my church’s youth group.  This only happened because my mom forced me to go on a retreat with them.  Being shy, I fought her about going because I didn’t know any of the kids.  On the retreat, I made great friends, some of which I’m still in touch with today.  I had my first kiss thanks to my first game of Truth or Dare, and met the guy that became my first boyfriend.  We ended up dating for 3+ years.  But I digress.

As I got more involved at church, I decided I wanted to train to become a lector.  What could better cure me of my fear of public speaking?  Not only is it a huge audience – a whole church full of people – it’s also specific words I had to deliver.  On one hand, this was good, because I didn’t have to write it myself, and I had a guide to teach me where to pause and what words to emphasize.  On the other hand, it could be bad because if I screwed up, I’d be screwing up Liturgy in front of the priest and a whole church full of people who were depending on me to deliver a reading from the Bible.  But there was something about this challenge that made me excited to tackle it.  So I did.  I was a lector in high school.  I don’t think I did it more than a handful of times, but it did wonders for me.  When I went to college, I decided to minor in Speech Communication.

As an adult, I enjoy public speaking.  I crave opportunities for it because I know I always have room for improvement, and practice is the only way to improve.  I must be in the minority though, especially in my family.  I have three sisters, and I was maid of honor for one of them.  The other two, who chose each other as their maid of honor, both allowed me to make toasts for them at the wedding reception where they were the maid of honor.  I wasn’t fantastic, but I also wasn’t afraid to stand up and take the microphone.  It’s not that I don’t get nervous, because I still do.  But I think a little nervousness keeps me on my toes, so I don’t get complacent or overconfident.

Last summer, we joined a new church.  We were putting Katy Rose into preschool, and the school happened to be at this church.  We didn’t feel a strong connection to the church where we had been registered, so it wasn’t a very difficult decision to change parishes.

In addition to volunteering with the preschool, I decided now was the time to get involved again as a lector.  I had wanted to lector for many years, but never made it a priority.  So I got in touch with the person that is in charge of the ministry.  Almost two weeks ago, I went to a training session with him and one other new lector.  He showed us the ropes and we did a trial run with a reading to the empty church.  Last week he emailed all the lectors and asked for our availability for the different weekend mass times in February and March, and I specified that I was available at 11am and 5pm masses on Sundays.

Last Friday morning, he emailed me to see if I could sub for the first reading at 5pm on Sunday, 1/29.  I accepted the assignment, and went into “cram” mode to prepare.  I figured it was better to just get on the first horse, so to speak.

The procedure at our church is for the lectors to come in with the procession and leave with the recession.  Our church is set up like a semicircle.  I had chosen our seats in the second pew, all the way to the left next to the musicians, so I would be as close as possible to the ambo when it was time for my reading.  The only bad thing about it was that we were visible to probably half of the church, and especially the priest and deacon. 

I processed in, delivered my reading, and was okay with it.  Mike thought I might have been a little too slow or had paused too much, so I will work with that in mind when I prepare for the next time.  We were almost to the end of the mass when Katy Rose received a nature call.  Knowing there was a small bathroom just behind the front area with the altar, I asked Mike to take her there.  I was afraid I would miss the recessional.

They went off to the potty, and thank God the choir was making music.  After a moment, through the music I could hear what I knew was the voice of my child crying very loudly.  Terror struck me… what on earth is going on back there??

Mike appeared next to the hallway with a serious face, beckoning me toward him.  Terror quickly turned to dread.  I’m betting she had an accident and is covered in pee.

I quickly walked over, painfully aware that pretty much everyone in the church can see the three of us as we skipped over there directly from the second pew.  Yes, Katy Rose is, in fact, crying very loudly, just steps from the rest of the congregation.

“What is going on??” I asked, seeing that she was not (hooray!) covered in pee.

Mike looked at me with a guilty and sympathetic face and explained that while he was trying to get her situated, something happened.

“I accidentally hit her in the face.”

Simultaneously, several emotions registered inside me.  Horror that my child took some kind of hit to the face.  Sorrow that she was upset.  Embarrassment that we are all here with this loud situation.  Sympathy for my husband and what was clearly an accident.  And somewhere in there, I was laughing at the hilarity of the situation.  Sometime (probably soon), I was going to tell this story of how I almost screwed up my first time as a lector because my husband accidentally hit our kid in the face during a potty break.  It’s the kind of thing you can’t make up. 

She wasn’t obviously hurt, so I figured the majority of the issue was hurt feelings as opposed to actual pain.  Once I calmed her down, she took her sweet time and wouldn’t let me leave her in Daddy’s care to wash her hands.  I was starting to freak out a little bit about making it back to our seats before the end of the mass.  Thankfully, there were some long announcements and I didn’t miss the recessional.  Phew!

Next time, I think I’ll insist she goes to the bathroom before mass starts.  No more sucker punches during church.

Some Cheese with That Whine? How About Civility, Respect, and Understanding?

Let me preface this post with a light warning: I am about to delve into thoughts that wander into politics a bit.  I am not here to inflame or accuse.  My intentions are to express my thoughts and opinions and to do so with honesty and compassion.  I don’t believe in bullying, but I do believe in self-defense.  I also believe whole-heartedly in love.  So there it is.

Unless you ignored all the TV and radio news, internet news, and social media the last couple of days, you’ve all heard about and/or seen the story of Arizona Governor Jan Brewer arguing with President Obama on the airport tarmac this week.  Because a picture is worth a thousand words, a particular photo of Jan Brewer with her finger apparently wagging in the President’s face has generated heaps of commentary.  Most of the comments I have read imply that Brewer is without class, disrespectful, and an embarrassment to the State.

This shouldn’t come as any surprise, because that’s what people do—make fun of Governor Brewer.  I’ll admit her public speaking skills leave much to be desired.  And I’m not always sure I agree with her positions.  But she has done something important to me—she has stood up for what she believes is right.  Those of us that believed in SB1070 when she signed it into law didn’t make a lot of noise.  So at first, it seemed to me that just about everyone was against 1070.  The more I talked with people, I realized I knew a lot of people who felt the way I did.  We just weren’t out there screaming about it.

One of the things I like about Governor Brewer is that she really tries.  I heard the text of the letter she handed to the President, and it sounded good.  Respectful of the President, putting our best foot forward, excited about the state’s economic recovery, and nicely inviting him again to visit the Arizona-Mexico border.  In the conversation on the tarmac, the President brought up Brewer’s book and expressed that he didn’t like the way she portrayed him in their meeting in D.C.  I don’t see how that’s relevant to the purpose of his visit, which was job creation.  He hasn’t even read the book, either.  I think it was inappropriate and rude on the part of the President.  And he is still ignoring Arizona and our immigration issues.  I’m injecting a bit of my own assumptions and opinions here, so please be patient with me.

When Democrat Janet Napolitano was governing Arizona, we had the same immigration issues.  I actually voted for her the last time, before she went to D.C. to head up Homeland Security.  How is it that the same fight Napolitano fought under President Bush is portrayed differently now that it’s Brewer and President Obama?  Brewer is doing the same things Napolitano did, sending the invoices to the Feds, and we still get zero response.  Except Brewer is vilified while Napolitano sits, lips mostly zipped, in her ivory tower.  Napolitano, as far as I’m concerned, has completely abandoned her former state.  She should know these issues better than anyone, and it’s as if she’s been brainwashed since she got to D.C.

Yesterday, as I saw comment after comment assuming things that people couldn’t know, I started to feel very sad.  It reminded me why I generally don’t like talking about politics – because my natural tendency is to mediate and everything out there in the media and social media feels so divisive.  It is easy to get caught up in the arguments.  We all have our beliefs and most of us probably feel attacked by the other side at one time or another (or maybe all the time).

Last March, my husband and I went to Tucson for a benefit concert.  The show was absolutely wonderful and had a large number of acts, both big names and not-so-big names.  The show was organized by Ron Barber, one of Gaby Giffords’ injured staffers.  The beneficiary was the Fund for Civility, Respect and Understanding.  The emotional atmosphere, the music, and the guest speakers led my husband, at one point in the show, to proclaim that he wanted to do something.  He needed to do something.  Something to help people, somehow.

I wonder how many other people felt that way after the Tucson shooting, or some other tragedy.  Wanted to reach out.  Wanted to extend a hand in the spirit that we are all neighbors, we’re all in this place together…  But how long does that last?  Why are our politics and debates and rhetoric so ugly and mean?  As soon as someone decides an appropriate amount of time has passed, we see how nothing really changed from that event, or the next one, or the next one.

How many of us identify ourselves as Christians?  I’d venture to say a majority of us.  How easily we forget the Ten Commandments.  How effortlessly we ignore God’s desire for us to love one another as He has loved us.  How quickly and repeatedly we abandon attempts to live like Jesus did.

I’m not perfect, I don’t know everything, and I’m not always right.  I try to remind myself of those truths when I find myself making assumptions.  The only thing we know for sure is that we don’t know what really happened on the tarmac.  But I am compelled to refrain from condemning either person because of a photograph or an article about the event.  There are always multiple sides to a story. 

Yes, personally, in my gut, I do feel the President can come off looking like a bully.  Like the time he told John McCain that the election was over.  Jan Brewer is no saint, but I think she isn’t one to kowtow to anyone that she knows doesn’t have our state’s best interests at heart.  If you ridicule someone for expressing a belief that is different from yours, then you are a bully.  My first instinct is to say, “Shame on you.”  But upon reflection, I remember I should instead act with civility, respect and understanding.  That also implies I should act with love.  And one of the greatest, and most challenging, aspects of real love is the necessity of forgiveness.

Looks like I've got my work cut out for me.

I'm Kind of a Big Deal

Do you blog?  Do you journal?  If you do, what happens if you don’t do it for an extended period of time?  If you’re like me, you feel like you’ve somehow let someone down for failing to record your life.  As if anyone actually cares about gaps in my own personal history.  We’re only human, we aren’t here forever, and no one escapes that reality.  So why do I care if I’ve let months or years (gasp!) go by without putting down any record of my thoughts or experiences?  Now don’t worry, I’m not hugely upset about it.  It just makes me wonder why this bothers me.

I started a journal when I was in 9^th grade, using a notepad of multicolored, lined paper that I figured my sisters would never want and therefore would never find if they went snooping.  And yet I have always written in a way that, while honest, wouldn’t leave me terribly embarrassed if someone were to read it.  I thought that as my life went on, I might want to come back to my thoughts and relive them down the road, just for fun.  Or maybe I would have kids someday and when I’m gone they might want to know what my life was like.  Is it just me?  Do you feel this way?

Recently I discovered a daily diary that my great grandmother used many, many years ago.  She didn’t write every day, but the days she did write made me wonder about her quality of life.  She would note the weather, visits to or by family members or friends, and then physical ailments.  Many times she would end the entry with something like, “Lord, please take away my pain.”

At first I felt very sad for her, seeing all of that documentation of pain in her daily life.  Then I thought perhaps it was just part of letting your troubles go up to God.  I don’t know.

I don’t remember if I wrote my feelings down during the two times in my life that I was close to suicidal.  My depression during my college years was not something I understood, and I did not know how to seek help on my own.  While depression is something I continue to battle as an adult, I feel fortunate that someone intervened in my last semester of college before any hideous, morbid thoughts on my part had an opportunity to develop into actions. 

In my journals, I’ve been up and down.  I’ve written about school, dating, fun, sadness, hopes, fear, work, friends, and family.  But there is one section of one of my journals that immediately comes to mind as the darkest of my entries.  It starts on the page I wrote in on 9/11/2001.  After several months, maybe even a year, I ended up marking the edge of those pages with a black pen.  I think I knew that this was something important in history, and maybe one day a young person would be interested in my account the way I used to ask my grandmother about living during the Great Depression.

I know I’m just me, just as important as the next person.  Contrary to Ron Burgundy’s assertion, I know I matter to my family and close friends, and that’s all that matters.  So it’s not important to me whether anyone reads my blogs or journal entries.  Perhaps I am simply interested in the preservation of history.  (Is this why I can’t seem to throw anything away?? J)  Looking forward into the uncertain future of life in the United States, I truly hope that 9/11/2001 is the only event that ever turns the edge of my journal black.