Grace

I haven't made time for new writing, so I'm recycling the old. :)

Grateful for much this year.

Happy Thanksgiving...

(Original post date: November 25, 2009)

I keep needing and wanting a definition for grace. Is it a quiet blanket that provides calm? Thrown over a situation it melts away the impurities, the untruths, the frenzy and leaves only goodness. Grace is a peacemaker. It slows a building of energy. It appreciates every one as a creature of God. It balances Godliness with freedom of choice. When freedom abounds, fast and furious, grace, like a warm fleece blanket, douses the flame a bit, protects the Godliness. Reminds us what we truly are.

Grace is quiet. Grace is confident. I think of Mom when Grandma Murphy died. I was frenzied. Mom wasn’t cooking! How had the system broken down? Mom always cooks! Then the food began to arrive. Neighbors, friends and family appeared at our door with plates and bowls of food. Not necessarily a call beforehand, no scramble to vacuum a floor or clean the table off. Quietly, calmly Mom accepted help. The thing is Mom knew before the knocks came to the door. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been talking with Mom about, “What are you up to today?” And she is making food for someone. The guys are in the field and need sandwiches. A neighbor is ill. A farm friend has died. A young mother has a very sick little boy. Mom has worked it out. Grace through caring for others. At least while eating, those families have a half hour of warmth from someone who cares, the pain is momentarily eased. Mom’s cooking is her gift. Mom’s appearance at a friend’s house with a meal is grace, a fleece blanket to help the situation seem more bearable. Mom has shown me the power of grace not only in giving it but, perhaps more importantly, in accepting it.

But what do I do with it? I pray for God’s grace that I in turn may be graceful, gracious, full of grace. It’s a beautiful word and I sometimes recognize grace when I see it, but I have a hard time conjuring it up. Perhaps that’s the problem. Perhaps grace is a slow simmering pot of delicious stew, melding all the flavors together. And after stewing for a couple hours, the bubbles pop emitting not the smell of ingredients, but the smell of stew. It’s a culmination of events that produce grace, but yet, it’s not produced. Grace just happens.

But how to deal with it? Emitting grace is more imaginable, easier perhaps, than accepting grace. In our lives, busy and full, grace seems more elusive. However, in every day, there are tiny but great moments of grace. Sadly, our society misses many of these because we’re self-absorbed in the to-dos, should-dos and really need-to-dos. As a parent, some moments, thankfully, hit me in the face. A scream from the living room, “Mom!!” A frenzied return from the kitchen, “What?” A reply, “I love you!” “…Oh.” Like being tapped by the wing of an angel. A gift of grace. And if I dry my hands in the kitchen and go to the living room and hug my cherub, that’s accepting grace.

This brings me back to my biggest quandary: recognizing and accepting that more subtle grace as it moves about daily. How? First the world needs to spin a bit slower so that I can “see” grace when it happens. If only grace traveled as a recognizable fleece blanket, neatly folded, I could keep my eye on it. Then when I see it expand and cover something, that would be my “aha” moment. Assuming it’s spotted, and, oh dear God, it’s going to land on me. Do I want to be covered? Shall I run? Why? What will I do when it lands? Frenzy. I close my eyes. I plant my feet. I am quiet. I feel the tap of an angel wing. It’s beautiful, heavenly. And all I can return is a whisper. “Thank you.”

Power and Prayer

I had reserved this blog for new writing but Power and Prayer seems as relevant to life today as it did a year ago. A perspective shaker for me.

Original post date: 11/10/09

Power. For me, being treated for cancer, especially going through chemo, means losing power and control. No choice. Every person facing this comes to the table from a different life journey. I've always felt that I'm the protector of my children. Previously invincible, now, I've become the protector of myself, and as that, I’m going to maintain as much control as I can. I own it and I have to do what’s right for me and my family. In a way this is a new position of power. This is a full-time job. Along the way, in June and July, I had more fear and anger than feelings of power. But, Bill and I made sure then that we had complete confidence in the doctors to whom I had to turn the physical power over to.

Fortunately, people told me to take care of me, and do what I needed to do for myself and my family. I learned how to accept help from friends and strangers.

Fortunately, every person I reached out to who had experienced cancer has grasped a hold of me. Each has cast a rope around my waist, destined not to let me sink. They are pillars standing on the shore of a rocky sea they’ve already sailed. From family members to women who were mere acquaintances or absolute strangers, I have strong and formidable women who hold the ropes that are stabilizing me. They talk with me at 11 p.m. from Iowa. They told me what day to expect my hair to fall out. They warned me that my bald head would be cold sleeping. They laughed at me when I thought perhaps I should go to the ER after cleaning a toilet and getting light-headed. “You goofball! Open a window and take some deep breaths!” I am in a fit of laughter writing and thinking about that phone call!

Fortunately my pastor, in addition to his compassionate listening, said, “I really feel you will come out on the other side of this,” plus words to the effect that God can take anything I can dish out. I have had words with God. I have prayed and I have prayed aggressively. I have explained exactly where I stand with this. In my mind and through my writing, I have stood in the middle of a corn field in Iowa screaming at God. Then I thought perhaps He couldn’t hear me through the 8-foot high stalks of corn. So we took it to a hayfield. And I really screamed at Him.

I’m lifting from a journal the following that I wrote the last day of July. It’s actually written to you but back then I was too close to it to share with you. It’s raw footage of a different place than where I am today.

July 31, 2009
I think faith is a very individual personal decision, and I tend to keep it that way. However if you are someone who prays and are stumped, as I’ve been, about what to pray for us, I’ll share with you what I pray for. While I’m thankful for much, there are days when I pray pretty aggressively and angrily, which I have never done before. I’m sure that we, He and I, have an understanding that whatever comes out is indeed a raw passion for life and the commitment I have made as a wife, a mother, a daughter, a granddaughter, a sister, a cousin, an aunt, a niece, a god-parent, a guardian, a friend…. So when that passionate fire burns raw in my conversations with Him, I remind Him to be prepared for me to live life with a zest and a fierceness I seldom if ever have experienced in my life. With that said, this is my prayer.

“God, I thank you for all the gifts in my life.

I pray for daily blessings, including those small and special or large and complicated. For those that appear blemished.

I pray for your grace and that I in turn am graceful.

I pray that I feel the power of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit move through me every day.

I pray for strength and courage in all that I do.

I pray for wisdom in all decisions I make.

I pray that the cancer is contained, controlled and cured.

I pray for the doctors who are helping me. I pray especially for my surgeon’s expertise and thank you for her compassion.

I pray for those special women in my life who have had cancer and for those who are fighting it now. Thank you for putting these strong, formidable women in my path.

I pray for all of the people who will help me on this journey.

I pray for others who are ill or suffering.

I pray for my parents, brothers, sister and family. Please give them comfort as I know they are worried about me. Remind them daily that I am from strong stock: Murphys, Mills, and Iowans.

I pray that I live in each moment and truly see the beauty that surrounds me.

I pray for “Mommy, Daddy, Will & Liam.” We are a family of four with long full lives to lead together.

I pray all this in your name… Our father who art in heaven…”

And this is what I carry with me in my pocket on a prayer bracelet every day. And I pray this prayer not normally in tears but with great hope and tremendous faith.

And there are days when I so wish for an Iowa corn field to scream in – so, if you have one and feel the urge, go pray aggressively in it for me!

This must be the angry stage. :)

End of journal entry.

August 1, 2009, was a new day with a new sense of peace.

Staying strong with a pocket full of prayer,
Linda

My Halloween Costume

October 31st. A year ago today I shaved off my hair.

Last Friday, we had a Halloween party at school. I love Halloween and usually – with the exception of last year – I dress as a witch; however, my witch costume wasn’t in the Halloween boxes. And a half hour before we had to leave, I decided that I HAD to dress up. Saying, “Oh, I’ll give it a miss this year” wasn’t cutting it. So I dug through the breast cancer corner in our bedroom and found the spiky pink wig… and the sparkly tiara. I put on my bright rainbow tie-dyed shirt, and thought I would stop there. I didn’t know what I was because the jeans and shoes still just looked like a Mom.

I’ve never gone out on Halloween half made up.

In the closet, I saw my white pj bottoms, covered in a bright red strawberry and green leaf print, and added them to the collection – thinking I looked like a teenager dressing during Homecoming week: Clash Day. Then I added dangly orange rain-forest frog earrings that Bill had brought back from Costa Rica. I saw a bold reddish-pink lipstick in my drawer and put some on. As I smacked my lips, I knew what I was becoming. I put on my brown-framed glasses. I dug through my jewelry and found the charm bracelet that draws strange wondrous powers from women in the Midwest. I dug to the bottom of my purse and found my prayer bracelet. I added those to the Italian charm bracelet I wear every day on my left wrist with my “no needles in this arm Lymphedema” alert. I put on my slippers and I looked complete.

I could not verbally explain this to anyone, so I created a fictional character: a pink punk rocker princess in pajamas. But she was really a strange looking character forged from Chemo Camouflage, PJ Clash, Hair Liberation, and Power and Prayer. A woman going through chemo. A Warrior Princess. However named, the costume felt honest and strangely comfortable.

If you’ve been keeping up with this blog and all the old writing on www.stayingstrong-linda.blogspot.com, you’ll see a void since mid-October. I had been merrily skipping along, editing and publishing a couple blogs a week. Then along came Power and Prayer, the skipping stopped. Time for writing evaporated. Editing these pieces and plunking them onto a blog wasn’t as simple as I had anticipated. I love copy editing, but…

Subconsciously, I consciously started focusing more on life around me, plunged into volunteering, left Power and Prayer hanging on a hook. But the last 48 hours, I’ve been taking inventory, re-accessing, and role-playing with my sister: “Repeat after me: ‘I am over-committed right now. I’m sorry I can’t take this on.’ So I can focus on my main jobs as a wife, a mother, a daughter, a granddaughter, a sister, a cousin, an aunt, a niece, a god-parent, a guardian, a friend, and now a writer. So I can get back to that Linda Malcolm who could fill your ears for days on paper. So I can tackle a big copy editing job.

My son Liam also took inventory Friday night. Looking at my highly-beaded and charmed wrist, he picked out the four biggest bluey-green beads nestled right next to each other on my prayer bracelet. “Look Mom, it’s Mommy, Daddy, Will, and Liam.”

And now on to editing Power and Prayer with :”) and a bracelet back in my pocket.

Staying strong,
Linda

Breaching

Laughing alone in the kitchen this morning with a slow-motion video running through my head, it was continually replaying a scene from the water park yesterday.

Bill was at work and I was at an indoor water park with the Will and Liam. Relaxed in a plastic chair and thinking how nice it is to watch them. No longer needing to hold their hands, protect their faces from the water, protect them from the big kids, or remind them of the safety rules. I watched and worked on extracting pure joy from their faces and pulling it into my reserves. Their smiles filled me up.

As the Dip In Theater for younger kids became more crowded in the early afternoon, there were tons of people to watch. Right in front of me was a family of four. Mom and Dad were sitting in the shallow water as their toddlers maneuvered the slide and splashed around next to them. The parents had very serious faces and looked like they were fulfilling their duty: protecting their children from the big kids and reminding them of the water rules. I didn’t see them smile. Were they worried about their kids? Was this their first visit? Were they in shock over the chaos and noise?

With more people, the area at the bottom of the slides was a bit crazier than in the morning. Will and Liam careened down the slides then rode the gush of water at the bottom where the slide spilled out. Then a boy, not mine, created a new trick: jumping in front of the slide as the kids came down. Then the kids at the top weren’t waiting for the bottom to clear. Then the ones that flew down were congregating at the bottom as the next child burst down and took them out. And suddenly Liam was standing at the bottom of the slide, splashing and giggling. I had been relaxed all day, but this new chaos was interrupting the natural rhythm. I decided to go in and remind Liam to step back before someone took him out.

I saw the “1 foot” sign at the shallow pool’s edge, so I took an athletic, giant stride, leading with my right foot, over the edge. The confusing part was not feeling the bottom of the pool at what should have been the “1-foot” point. And the looks on the serious parents’ faces were full of concern as I nearly landed on their family of four. Think of an orca breaching then falling into the water sideways. I did the latter part of that move. The mom and dad, probably after confirming none of their young were under me, immediately asked if I was OK. I looked from Dad’s tattooed arm three inches from my face to their wide eyes. “Oh, I am fine” – as if I fly through the air like this daily, unharmed. I somehow stood up, which may have been a funnier feat to watch than the actual fall. Trying to disguise a hobble with speed, I continued on course to move Liam away from harm’s way.

Duty done, I gently walked back to the water’s edge. Aha, the water is only a foot deep, but add the wall height and the total step-off was a solid two feet minimum. Back in the viewing arena, I plunked down in my chair, where I took inventory. Grazed right knee. Funny pain in my right toe – it probably took the whole weight of my botched launch/landing.

Quietly trying to control the reddening of my cheeks, I smiled at my boys and made eye contact with no one. Simply sat there repeating the line that has gotten me through many plane rides by myself with Will and Liam crying and screaming, so often right behind the first-class cabin: “I will never see any of these people again.”

Still laughing with a purple toe,

Linda

“How are you?”

Considering that October 16, 2009 I started chemo, today… I am great. My life is back into full swing with volunteering at two schools, play dates, fall travel plans – most things that I wasn’t doing last year at this time, I am back to doing.

However… my inner self has surpassed the exterior boundaries of my body.

In other words: I’m still carrying 30 pounds of extra weight, gained over three long winter months of chemo. I get bruises walking through the house and bumping into things, forgetting my body extends out farther now. That, together with my tight curls… I don’t feel like the old me. My hair is as long as my middle finger but lies in tight boingy curls close to my scalp in the morning. It gradually expands to ¾ the length of my middle finger by the end of the day. Recently, the weight of longer curls has made it noticeably looser every week.

The identity of “Linda” is still lost somewhere in the strange image reflected in mirrors. Some days, stranger than being bald. Bald was temporary, to be expected given the situation. When my hair grew back and when treatment was complete, I expected to see me. Immediately. To walk away from the year unscathed. Completely me. A couple days ago, I was laughing alone in our bedroom as I got dressed when Bill walked in. “I so don’t look like me. I feel like me, but I definitely don’t look like me.” And his reply was something like, “You have had cancer and chemo, you know.” Ah, yes. And I do look spectacular considering that little hiccup of last year. And I am thankful.

Most days I’m operationally myself. I still have a strange sensation at the back of my upper arm and some tenderness to the touch, especially after seeing my doctors and having them perform their dutiful pokes and prods. Which coincidentally, I’ve had my year checks: clear mammogram and passing grades from my breast surgeon and my chemo doctor. :) I’ll have an MRI in November as my standard preventative care is alternating mammograms and MRI’s every six months.

Generally, I can lift, turn, spin, pirouette… I have much less tingling in my arms, especially at night, thanks to Gabapentin/Neurontin (sp?). Things that are achy – hips, knees, and feet – I imagine will be better without the weight.

The retelling of a story about two farmers and a dog: One day, George visited his neighbor Fred. Standing in the barnyard, George couldn’t help but notice Fred’s dog howling. “What’s wrong with him?” George asked. Fred explained, “He’s sitting on a nail.” George was perplexed, “Well, why doesn’t he move?” Fred shrugged, “I guess it doesn’t hurt enough yet.”

In hindsight – in case you are reading this for foresight – I would do two things differently throughout treatment – chemo and radiation: Exercise, even taking short walks daily, and not treat myself with Oreos and milk at 9 p.m. to congratulate myself on being alive. After a candid conversation with my breast surgeon, I picked up the book Women Food and God. She said if she could, she would give every woman that came into her office a copy of it. My curiosity is piqued…

Staying strong, having recently buttoned my capris – which meant removing the hair band that had been bridging the gap between my button and button-hole all summer,

Linda

Liam’s Forever Family Day... and some make-up time

This month we celebrated Liam’s Forever Family Day: the day he became a Malcolm with the promise of forever. Earlier this month, I started writing a few notes about the person he is at nearly five years old. There’s so much material; here are some highlights.

While in Maine over Labor Day, Liam grabbed an ice cube in the kitchen and started walking down the hall, only to return to the kitchen in seconds… doing the universal sign for choking. I grabbed him from behind and did the Heimlich maneuver. Out popped the melting cube. The last time I did this for him, pebbles came out. I was shaking and he was crying, “Did it nearly die me, Mom?” (He knows I don’t like the word “kill”; the avoidance of the word is wreaking havoc on his grammar.) A couple days after this, and after discussing the Heimlich maneuver, the choking incident came up again. I asked if he remembered what I did. “Yes, the Heimlich remover.” Four days later, a little piece of cereal got caught in the wrong place while I was eating. Still coughing, I bent over next to Liam to help him with something. He gently placed his hand on my sternum and turned his brown eyes up to me. “Are you choking, Mom? I will help you.”

There is a void in writing for Liam’s fourth birthday during the winter months, unrelated to me being too tired to write with a bald head. We were in the midst of a “how-do-we-change-this-behavior” quandary. His, not mine. Desperate, I heard “positive reinforcement chart” murmured somewhere and went to work. I made the most intricate chart: gold stars for kind words, for kind actions, and for being helpful. I wrote all these things out in detail – although Liam had a great grasp on ABC’s, words like “action” and “being” weren’t in his reading repertoire yet. In retrospect, this should have been a working document for me in preparing an effective positive reinforcement chart. I hadn’t read up on this parenting trick, so after doling out gold stars for a couple days, I hit a brick wall. Gold stars meant nothing. The negative behavior was still there. One evening I was in overload and facing a tantrum at the dinner table. I grabbed the positive-reinforcement chart off the wall and ripped it in half in front of Liam. “Mom, you ripped Liam’s chart up!” cried Will. “My gold stars!!!” screamed Liam. Wait a minute, he actually cared about them?? Now, feeling like a real goof and seeing my mom-gold-stars shoot away, I promised to make him another one. Searing mad, Liam slowly declared with a snarl through clenched teeth, “I don’t need a chart.” Well, that’s good because I’m crap at effectively implementing gold star bribery – especially with that rip-it-in-half thing.

In Liam’s mind, his fourth summer as a Malcolm will forever be marked by his mother’s crazy act of removing the Nintendo DS and the Wii from the Malcolm household. The state of his being changed from a tyrant demanding more time on the DS and monopolizing conversations with the various levels Mario can go, to coloring with his brother nearly every morning this summer. (Yes, they were drawing Mario levels, but nonetheless…) This was bittersweet because these electronics created a new bond between the boys. They strategized together; they passed the gadgets back and forth, handing them off knowing when the other had greater skill at a particular level; they were problem-solving together by advancing through Mario levels. Unfortunately,outside of this wonderful new partnership, their desperate need for and total engrossment with these electronics games resulted in their disappearance. The elimination rocked the Malcolm house, shaking all three boys to the core. There will be a time and a place for them. But here and now is neither. Last spring, one of Liam’s school friends confirmed Mario’s offensiveness: “Addy gets grumpy when I draw Mario and talk about it at school. I’ll just draw it at home.” Addy’s voice outranks Mom’s, and I’m glad she spoke up.

Bakugans became the new thing last summer and while the “battle brawls” get intense, they are generally kept to the toys, not to one another or to other people (aka: the parents). If Liam is sitting quietly in a ball on the floor, you tap his head, say “Bakugan stand,” and he’ll pop up into the shape of a Bakugan. One problem with Bakugans: recent local studies have shown that Bakugans tend to turn-off ears. We have discovered that ears work much better when the Bakugans are transported in a Bakugan basket upstairs and returned after teeth are brushed, faces are washed, and pj’s are on. Put a Bakugan in the palm of your hand and you’ll forget everything else you were supposed to be doing. They remind me of what it feels like to hold a Slinky: you just gotta play with it.

Malcolm laughter and ingenuity would be decibels lower had the Malcolm trio not become a family of four with Liam. Despite all the attempts to “steer me crazy” and aside from being called a “foolish old woman” this week, he is a charmer. (I am now in search of the book that phrase is from…) We always know where Liam stands: a trait that will serve him well at 25 years old and one that we have the privilege of honing today.

:)

Linda

Embracing Pink?

I have red hair. Light pink has never been my color of choice. And now we are approaching October the month of light pink – National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Last year my chemo start date landed right in the middle of this awareness month. Finishing my treatment in April, I was ready to gallop away from breast cancer. And, between bodily remnants of the last year and knowing other women being diagnosed monthly, that’s impossible.

Remembering how strong and formidable women helped pull me to the other side of this, I’m not far enough away from it to be as confident and strong as they have been for me. Some days I feel like a cow, branded with a pink ribbon and being forced up a pink ramp into a pink livestock trailer going somewhere I don’t want to be. However, I’ve been very candid about the experiences of the last year and, believing that there is a greater good at work, I’m working to find sure footing in the aftermath. As much as the rest of my history has shaped my future, so will this.

After moving into our first home together in 1991, I was alone in the house one early fall Friday night and found a huge spider in the entryway. With bumps that looked like grapes on its back, it was so unusual I decided to put it in a jar and show it to Bill when he got home from softball. Then I decided I didn’t want to scare the thing silly running around in a little jar but rather just get the bug spray out. Like a horror film scene unfolding, a hundred baby spiders fell off the big spider’s back and started to scuttle away. I wanted to flee the house. Instead I went on-line to study spiders, which is when I learned that a female wolf spider carries her babies on her back for up to 40 days, AFTER carrying them on her abdomen for two or three weeks in an egg sac, which she holds up to keep from dragging on the ground, while she continues to hunt. This woman, I mean, this spider is amazing. Whenever and wherever I see a wolf spider carrying an egg sac, I give her wide berth. I spout these facts to the boys when we see a wolf spider outside. I protect her.

Knowledge. I pledge this month to investigate pink awareness and to share my findings – what I’ve learned through a little research and through my own experience.

To embrace pink? I can’t wait until the end of the month when the words on my calendar above the month change from “National Breast Cancer Awareness Month” to “National Adoption Month.”

Outside of writing about pink-related topics in October, I embrace the stunning colors in the trees, blooming mums, purple kale, and orange pumpkins. As for light pink and the brilliant shades of October… Well, quite frankly, they clash.

Staying strong,
Linda

Short request

Dear God,

It’s Linda. Today remind me that my short temper and headache have nothing to do with the environments I move through nor the people that cross my path, but rather is totally attributed to the night sweats at 3 a.m., which are attributed to my skipping the pharmacy run to pick-up my anti-hot flash/night sweat medicine.

So when my personal GPS is going in the back seat – Liam: At the end of the road turn right. From the middle of the road turn left. Am I driving you crazy, Mom? Am I steering you crazy, Mom? (giggle) Am I giving you a headache, Mom? – please lash my tongue and remind me that the headache is from lack of sleep, from skipping an errand. Definitely not from the cute GPS droid.

Pull the sides of my mouth upward… pull my feet one step in front of the other… get me to and through bedtime.

Thanks…
Linda

P.S. Thanks to for the chair that dumped me while working in the school office today. Slow motion falling so very ungracefully then laughing hysterically in front of people I hardly know was good medicine for the day.

Not such a good day, huh?

The pitter patter of summer started like any other normal summer. Let’s see how much we can put into one day. If there’s white space on the calendar, I have time to do it. So let’s do it. Yes, I can do it. And I, and we, did it. Living fast – it’s how I’ve always thought of our life as a family. Something always going. But that something-always-going… by mid-summer it was making me tired and frenzied.

One day in late July, I had to make a side trip to Walgreens with Will and Liam to pick up a case of water. I was keyed up, juggling details in my head. And in my head right now is a brain affected by age, mom ADD, and chemo residue. It makes for a rather jumbled place most days. From the car to the checkout counter: “Hold my hand, we’re in a parking lot”… “I need to see you in the store”… “We have candy at home”… “Those are all glass jars – please don’t run your hand against them!” … “Don’t lie on the floor”… “Don’t walk in front of people, if they don’t see you…” Throughout this mom-chatter, I was drifting through what happened in the morning hours, vaguely aware of the present, and forecasting events for the coming afternoon, evening, and following days.

At the check-out counter, the young man cashiering said, “How are you doing today?” And I did the very audible Mom-grumble-grunt-groan. To which he returned, “Oh… not such a good day, huh?” He hadn’t started scanning. He was standing there looking at me with big, clear, blue eyes. They held firm, waiting for my response.

Sometimes, strangers aren’t so strange. I needed a swift kick. Lacking legs for boots and short of sending an apparition of Christ, God certainly did feel nearby in those calm baby blues. Am I nuts? I’m in a store with my children, lifting a case of water, handing over money – all without pain and without white gloves and without Purell, and I’m WITH my two gorgeous sons. What the hell could possibly be wrong with this most beautiful day?

Backtracking, I looked at him, shook my head to reorganize the marbles, and said, “You know, there is nothing wrong with today; it’s really a good day… Actually, it’s a great day.” In a kind of nonchalant surfer-dude way, he nodded in agreement.

Linda

Re-growing a Limb

Happy September. Happy fall. Happy routine. Good-bye chaos. Good-bye over-whelming freedom.

Mid-June I decided to dedicate this summer to making up for family time lost last summer. We grilled out and sat on the deck to eat until late evening; bedtime be damned as we made s’mores at 9 or 10 p.m. We went to Iowa, to Maine, to Missouri, to Arkansas. We drove and hiked up mountains. We went to the beach. We dropped a quilt under a tree for picnics many a day. On every adventure, big or small, I had writing ideas flitting through my head, but every time I felt an urge to write, I submerged it, trying to just quickly record an idea for a story to be written later. By the end of August I realized that not writing was like chopping off a limb.

But in June it seemed logical. Figure out what exactly I wanted to do with the writing. Take a break and pick it up when the boys were back in school. When routine returned. It’s here and I’m back: sitting in Panera (yes, the same one that I had to crawl out from underneath a locked bathroom stall door a couple years ago), glasses off, curls on, and computer plugged in. It feels good to be back. Like a starfish with a missing leg, I’m confident that re-growth will start soon.

:)

Linda

What is this?

June 16, 2009. Nearly 43 years old, I got the “You-have-breast-cancer” look from a radiologist. By mid-August I was diagnosed with Stage IIa Invasive Ductal Carcinoma, estrogen and progesterone receptive, HER2 negative. Thankfully, these were my breast surgeon’s words immediately following the diagnosis: “It’s treatable; it’s curable.”

The smallish mass in my left breast had a little satellite floating nearby and the cancer had gone to one lymph node. With medical information changing daily, I was failing miserably at keeping family and friends updated via email, so I started putting “updates” on a private website created through Lotsahelpinghands.

And this fall, those updates are evolving into a public blog: www.stayingstrong-linda.blogspot.com – a story in and of itself.

“Linda Malcolm Real Time” is a glimpse of life moving on after that year hiccup. After the biopsies, three surgeries, chemo and radiation – and now cancer-free. And with a couple months away from writing, plunged knee-deep in “research” with my family this summer, I feel many a story bubbling in my head – about rodents (yes, again…), summer nights outside, baling hay, eating lobster, and living as a breast cancer survivor.

Staying strong and moving on,

Linda

Tooth Fairy Follow-up

So, the Tooth Fairy left a $5 bill for the traumatic tooth loss. Will was greatly disappointed; his heart was set on a coin and it didn’t seem to matter that this $5 could be used to buy another Bakugan. After Will’s dejected announcement of no coin, I went up to make the bed and discovered a silver dollar in the crack between the mattress and the frame of the trundle bed. Whew! I called Will up and he pepped up with the knowledge that the Tooth Fairy had indeed brought a coin.

A week later, Will lost another tooth; this time through natural causes. It fell out while he was eating a French fry at the Lobster Pool. We searched the ground and had nearly given up, when his aunt found the tooth. Learning from the first event, the Tooth Fairy left another coin. The next morning, Will was sad: She hadn’t made his secret wish come true. We then discussed the virtues and abilities and limitations of the Tooth Fairy. Perhaps she had left money for Will to put toward buying another Bakugan. She only works in cash; she doesn’t have a workshop like Santa. Does she?

Tooth Fairy Economics

The Tooth Fairy is struggling today. She has been kind to Will with the first two teeth he lost. She apparently knows that Will has started a coin collection; she’s made a great effort to find a couple cool coins for the first two tooth deposits. And, she has probably been doing some coin research for the anticipated third tooth that can move to 45 degrees out from the upright vertical position. At 90 degrees, she knows it’s time for action: finding the perfect coin.

As a mom new to the tooth-loss era, I wasn’t sure what Will should expect from the tooth fairy. Do kids still get a quarter for each tooth? A dollar? Does the tooth fairy leave more for molars? Do kids at school compare tooth fairy loot?

But a new question arose today: If there is great trauma involved in tooth loss, is that particular tooth worth more? Say, for instance, if in a stuffed animal fight, your little brother accidentally picks up a flash light and throws it at you, knocking out a still tight baby tooth, leaving blood cascading down your chin… well, what then? Hopefully she’ll work out the answer to that little scenario before Will puts the envelope containing his tooth under his pillow, complete with the note: “Will’s third tooth, inadvertently knocked out by a flashlight…”

She has a couple hours to come up with an answer. I hope she’s a clever gal; she can’t make it to the local coin store before it closes today. I sense she will go with great trauma in tooth loss = greater monetary value for that particular tooth. It only makes sense… right?

:)

Linda