If This Isn't Nice, I Don't Know What Is

Dear Readers,

It has been a very busy summer, and an even busier fall.  I am now honored to hold a new job title with my company, a new student I.D. card with Boise State University, not to mention keeping up with Lucas and supporting the hell out of my talented and wonderful husband Shay.  

Not that you care.  Nor should you.  Isn't it boring when someone talks about how busy they are?  I just wanted you to know that I ignored my blog for completely selfish reasons, and when I wasn't doing one of the above, I was probably watching TV or sleeping in.  

Anyhow, it all ties into what I want to say this evening.  I'm doing a speech on the greatest thing in the world for my communications class next week: pie.  While searching the internet for pie quotes, I came across the gem I posted at the top this page from one of my favorite authors, Kurt Vonnegut.  I'll write it again, just to drill it in your head:  "I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 'If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.'"  

This struck a heart chord with me.  Here I sit on a Sunday evening, typing away while decorates a poster board with his favorite architects for a school project and Yoshi the Cat lounges on my furniture, slowly but surely deforming the couch cushions with his immense weight, and though I am satisfied, I am not happy.  You know why?  I don't have any pie for one, which could be a contributor.  But the main reason is that my person is across the country and I'm just not the same without him.

Shay and I have seen our share of struggles over the last few years.  But the last year in-particular has been astonishingly good.  No, not good.  What I meant to say was extraordinary.  No, not extraordinary.  I mean, how do I say it?  How do I categorize the feeling of security, coupled with my hearts contentment, multiplied by my sincere and pure enjoyment of just knowing he's around?  It's not just love.  It's more than that.  

I had a conversation with a dear friend of mine the other day, while our goofy and wonderful children ran around like puppies.  We were talking about how, in any relationship, there is no magic.  Now, you're welcome to contradict me if you think I'm wrong, but I'll still call bull shit on you.  Sure there are fireworks and there's magnetism, and bolts of lightening straight to your heart!  Of course.  And those feelings can last for a while, for sure.  But are they sustainable?  No.  At one point or another, there will be time that one or the other or possible both in the relationship at the same time will want to punch the other in the face.  Or say the meanest thing they can think of.  Or slowly poison them to death over months and months.  It's important, those moments of hate, because that's when you get to make the choice to stay or to go.  And if you stay, you accept the challenge of working it out.  And that's my point:  it's work.

SO MUCH WORK.

Shay and I did it though.  We did the work.  We rolled around in the mud.  We lived apart for a little while.  We fought and we hated each other and we finally sat down and put it all out there and we worked it out.  We weren't the first couple to do this, and I'm sure we're not the last.  But you know what?

IT ALL WORKED.

So now, here I am, pining for a guy that I've known for almost 14 years to come back and hang out with me.  It's not that I'm a mess without him, it's just that I'm so much better when he's around.  And maybe he's better when I'm around too (if anything a little less forgetful).  I wanted him to go on this trip to New York, hell I bought the ticket and kind of forced him to go, because I want to see his dreams come true, and it's taken him one step closer to that realization.  But next time, I'm just going to have to go too.  Because finally, after all of these years, I'm happy to say we're a package deal.  This I know for sure to be true, tomorrow night when he comes home, and I get to just hang out with him again, I'm going to take Kurt's advice and I'm going to say to myself, "If this isn't nice, I don't know what is."

Now that I've grossed you all out with the details of my marriage, I want to leave you with one more quote from Kurt Vonnegut, that gets me through just about anything, and still serves me well today: "We have to continually be jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down."  

My wings are huge.

Sincerely,

h.

Strange Guilt in the Quest for Health

Dear Readers,

Health in the modern day and age is such a relative concept.  I dare you to Google "I'm exhausted" or "stomach ache" or "runny nose with mild fever" and come out of the search not convinced that you're dying from a rare and fatal disease.  We are ever conscious of growing epidemics caused by immunizations or not-immunizing or pesticides or false organic labels or too many documentaries.  Seriously, have you seen all of the documentaries on everything that's killing us?  All of the things are killing us and there is nothing we can do.  Despite the internet and my Netflix subscription and the daily health report on Dr. Oz, I'm happy to announce the following:

I do not have cancer.

However, I am not as happy to announce the following:

I have guilt over not having cancer.

Three years ago I sat by my best friend's side as he was eaten away by this terrible disease.  His cancer was in his liver, his colon, his kidney's, his everything everywhere and it didn't take long before he died (thank goodness for that.  I can't imagine him trying to get on with it, to be honest).  My Grandma.  Two aunts.  One uncle.  Two cousins.  My sweet dad.  A handful of friends.  All of them have gone their rounds with this stupid cellular attack.  All of them having different diagnosis, prognosis, treatments, and odds thrown at them.  Some overcoming it miraculously, some slipping away quietly with no one knowing, and some just telling their cancer to go straight to hell and beating the shit out of it.  Whatever the case, it wasn't (isn't) easy for any of them.  It's terrifying.  Straight scary.  But they dealt with it just the same.

Several years ago now, it was 2008 if my faulty memory serves me correctly, I was exhausted.  I lost over 60 pounds in a month.  I was covered in horrible, itchy rashes.  My joints were throbbing and swollen.  I went to a doc in the box, and she told me immediately that she thought I had cancer.  Mind you, no tests at all had been done.  Not a drop of blood not an x-ray not a pee sample.  So after telling me I had breast cancer, she did the x-ray.  She ordered the blood work.  I peed in a cup.  And after an agonizing long weekend (of course this happened on a Friday before a holiday), I got a call from her:

You do not have cancer.

It took another year and several different doctors and specialists before I finally landed in the office of a Rheumatologist named Dr. Loveless (he wears bow ties and looks like John Malkovich) to give me a diagnosis of "Undifferentiated Connective Tissue Disease".  Doesn't it sound made up?  I think it might be made up.  Like Fibromyalgia or Consumption (I know they're not made up but they sound like it).  The way it was explained to me was that I'm somewhere in-between Lupus and Rheumatoid Arthritis with a couple other syndromes attached, but that my disease hasn't fully developed and it could be decades before it shows it's true colors.  So basically, it's made up.  It's a funny thing, to have your doctor reassure you that you are, in fact, sick.  They reassure you with frequent lab tests, and horrific prescription drugs that present side-effects that are often worse than your symptoms (I've done chemotherapy, anti-malarials, and so many steroids).  But I know they're right that there is something wrong, even if they can't name it.  I know it because I've had to alter my entire life to take care of myself in a gentle and loving way to accommodate chronic pain and faulty joints, for which my doctor recently wrote me a prescription for, and I quote, "full body massage once a week, forever", yes, FOREVER.   I have had to set so many limits: limits on my exposure to the sun (which I love), limits to the amount I can drink (which I love), limits on my diet and my sleep cycle and my exercise.  I think my mom may have cast a spell on me to force me to follow the LDS "Word of Wisdom" (did you Mom?  You're so tricky!), or maybe it was just wise to begin with.  With the help of my friend and Naturopathic Physician, Nicole Pierce, I've replaced all but one of my prescriptions with supplements and whole foods.  With the help of my kindred spirit and body-work specialist, Heidi Jae Puckett, massage and reiki keeps my body and spirit in balance.

I do not have cancer.

After watching Loren go through his horrific ordeal and I was in the throws of fresh grief, I was in Dr. Loveless's office for a check-up.  He was asking me the regular questions about my pain and what not, when I told him there was nothing wrong with me.  That I had witnessed what pain is, that I saw what real suffering is, and that I was no where near it.  Not even close.  Dr. Loveless took me by the shoulders and said as sweetly as someone who looks like John Malkovich can say, "What you have will not kill you.  It will make you hurt and miserable, but you are not going to die from it.  But that doesn't mean you don't suffer, because I know you do.  Don't let your friend's tragedy stop you from taking care of yourself."

I've thought about that conversation a lot.  I've also replayed a moment I had with Loren when he was so ill, and so very very angry.  Angry that he didn't do anything to stop the cancer.  Angry that he was presented with the end of his life before his time.  Angry that he wouldn't have a family, wouldn't see the world, and simply wouldn't live.  Of course he was angry.  I was angry for him.  That anger has helped me to decide to take care of myself, to encourage others to do the same.  So back to my comment from earlier:

I feel guilty that I do not have cancer.

I've told you before that I am a carrier of the high risk breast/ovarian cancer gene, BRCA1 (remember the hilarious mishap while having a breast MRI?  No?  Go back and read it.).  This is significant for a couple of reasons: 1) everyone I know that is a carrier of the gene in my family has been diagnosed with cancer, no exceptions, males included.  2) I have the advantage of knowing that this is in my future.  3) I can take advantage of that information and do something about it.  With that in mind, after carefully planning and preparing my work and home, I took two weeks off of work and had a complete hysterectomy last week.  All of my lady plumbing is now gone, along with 98% of the risk for ovarian cancer, and 40% of my risk for breast cancer.  Just like that.  A three hour date with an amazing oncologist and a robot and I increased my odds of being cancer free significantly.  I am healing quickly and without issue and feel better than I have in years.  Now, isn't that a funny thing to feel guilty about?  I think of Loren, of my family members and friends that have or are currently facing the horrific facts of life because they didn't have a chance to take advantage of their genetic map.  I am so lucky.

I'll deal with my guilt though, because I get to live, I get to have a family, I get to travel and enjoy the sunshine and my job and my friends and my family.  And I want to do those things for a very, very long time.  It helps to also know that right now, as I type this, slides of my freshly removed and sliced up lady parts are being sent to research labs all over to study a genetic map that is a mess for me, but possibly very helpful in the research of genetics and cancer.  With that in mind, I would like to dedicate my uterus, ovaries, and fallopian tubes to the memory of my late best friend, in the hopes that his influence to take care of my own health so I can stick around this crazy world for a while will help to make sure that someone else with cancer can too.

Before I sign off, it's important for me to tell you that despite what you might assume from this blog, I'm not writing this for attention or sympathy or out of self-pity.  I do not need to use my health or the health of my friends for such things, that's what I have self-deprecation and Facebook for.  Rather, it's just been on my mind and I felt like it was an important thing to write about.  Please don't dig too deep into it otherwise.  And if you're struggling with auto-immune problems or cancer or just life in general, please reach out to me.  I can be a pretty okay listener on occasion.

Sincerely,
h.

Feeling Inadequate in Legitimate Adequacy

Dear Readers,

The past 30 odd years have lead me to a strange place where  I find myself in the good company of several of my peers experiencing the same problem: we've almost arrived.  We've studied, we've worked really hard, we've survived performance reviews, we've been demoted, promoted, yelled at, praised, filled out applications, networked with all of the right people and even more of the wrong people and at long last we have been accepted into grad school.  Or are listed on the cover of a book that is certain to be famous.  Perhaps a record contract is in the near future.  Or maybe it's something as simple as realizing what it is that we want to be when we grow up, have enrolled in school again, and have accepted a new position at work that takes us one step closer to realizing that goal.  You'd think this would be exciting, enthralling even.  You'd think the general thought would be, "FINALLY!"  Surprisingly, you are more likely to hear one (if not all) of us say, "Oh shit.  I'm a sham.  A fraud.  I don't know what I deserve, but it isn't this."

I'm pretty sure this isn't a new experience.  As I get older, it becomes clearer and clearer to me that any road I walk down has had it's fair share of foot traffic already.  Knowing that, I look up, and I see the people that I have made giants in my mind.  My mentors, my teachers, my parents, my heroes.  I've asked them some very unassuming questions like, "Have you always been like this?" or "Didn't you ever cry at work?" and the ever popular, "There's no way you've made mistakes, right?"  And they laugh at me.  They open up their secret little boxes of skeletons and share their humiliating stories, their own doubts, their struggles, and most important, their experience.  I appreciate it so much, learning that they're human too.

There are so many different ways to measure success now.  It's not limited anymore to just a nice house and a nice car and paying for your kid to go to a nice college.  It's making the list as a possible answer to a BuzzFeed quiz.  It's headlining at a little known music festival.  It's reading the stats of your YouTube video and see that you're being followed by a complete stranger.  The achievements of your competitors are posted all over social media and every time you pick up your phone and check your Facebook page another person you know has funded their whatever through Kickstarter, and though you don't want to begrudge their success you can't help but think, "This is what people are paying for?  Really?  This?"

Is this the American dream?

Maybe.  It just might be.

I guess really what it comes down to is this: all of my peers that I've been privileged to know through all of their hard work and studying and networking and highs and lows, they deserve their success, whether or not they receive a crowdsourcing grant.  Beyond all belief, I might deserve mine too.  And, so I say this:

Draw your comics.

Run Robie Creek.

Climb rocks in Thailand.

Make your incredible music.

Go to grad school.

Burn your rejections letters and keep writing.

Paint beautiful things on skateboard decks.

Do whatever it is you need to do to feel the most satisfied you can with your life.  Accept the challenge.  You don't feel worthy because it's intimidating and hard and you're out of your league.  Don't worry though, it won't always feel like that, and before you know it you'll be bored and looking for the next great step.

Sincerely,
h.

Sunshine Forever: Our Family Vacation

Dear Readers,

Family vacation, by definition and proven by several different scientific studies, is an experience in which one travels with immediate family to various locations to learn one's ability to cope with anger, frustration, and hatred for their respective kin in a smaller and more expensive environment than home.  As with any rule or theory, there is always an exception, and I recently returned home from an exceptional family vacation.

My dear mother-in-law, Paula, decided a few years ago that she wanted to take her family on a dream vacation to Orlando, Florida and all it's attractions.  She told Shay, Shay's brother Anthony (or AJ or Tony, depending on the circle you run in), and myself about this trip last spring so that we could secure time off.  12 sunny days in Florida leaving the inversion and suckiness of Idaho winter behind during February: can you just imagine?  It was kept a secret from Lucas, Paula's one and only beloved grandson, until Christmas Day.  Using the advent calendar that his grandma had made him, Lucas religiously counted down the days to our departure.

On the morning of February 1st,  we boarded our flight to the Sunshine State, and hopped onto the Disney World bandwagon.  No really, they provide a bus from the airport to your resort, televisions playing the whole time showing you what an amazing time you're going to have and that they do weird things like grow nine pound lemons and talk a lot about little girls becoming princesses at the "Bibbity-Bobbity-Botique" (no mention of the $$$ though).  I'm not gonna lie, their propaganda works and I was stoked to get there, even with my initial disappointment of learning they didn't carry my size at the princess makeover shop.

We stayed at Disney World for the first five days of our trip.  Initially, I was surprised by the sheer size of the place.  It's huge.  Miles huge.  In Europe, it would be considered it's own country (non-participating in the EU, I'm sure).  Because we were staying onsite, we were privy to using their shuttle buses from park to park, and no ride on the shuttle was less than 25 minutes.  Disney World consists of four parks: The Magic Kingdom, EPCOT, Disney Hollywood Studios (formally MGM Grand) and The Animal Kingdom.  Conveniently, they have developed technology they refer to as "Magic Bands" (yes, you can buy t-shirts in the gift shops that refer to the bands) that are a bracelet with a microchip installed in it (the bracelets, I should say, are ordered in your favorite color and have your name printed on the inside), which you use as your pass into the parks, key to your hotel room, and tender when making a purchase.  They connect it to a credit card for you, so you don't have to carry those pesky things around!  That way, when you finish your roller coaster and are walking through the associated gift shop at the end of the ride, you can buy that yeti-themed hat with Mickey ears on top without a second thought.

Supposedly we were at Disney during the slowest time of the year, which is strange because a lot of the time it felt as full and chaotic as a Wal-Mart on welfare check day.  None-the-less, I'll give it to those Disney folks, they make every single person that walks through their gates feel special.  Every little girl is a princess, every little boy is a hero, and every parent there is the best parent in the world, even if they are now officially broke or heavily in debt.  The staff, or "cast members" (a very tricky way of getting around equal opportunity laws and paying staff a living wage), were always smiling, always spreading pixie dust, always sweeping the already spotless sidewalks and pavement, and always absolutely thrilled to be at work.  One of my favorite things to do was to get a cast member to act like a real person; break away from the smile and the magic and say things like, "...my feet hurt," or "I told them three times to be in row 2 and 3 and look at them, scrambling around like a bunch of idiots.  EXCUSE ME, ROWS 2 AND 3!  YES, THAT'S RIGHT!  All day every day, dealing with them."  Those moments of human interaction felt like great accomplishments to me.  We loved Disney World though, and thoroughly enjoyed our stay there.  We ate so much amazing food, rode so many amazing rides, watched a handful of incredible shows, and walked about 3,000 miles, enjoying every step, Lucas wearing an oversized novelty Goofy hat the whole time.

After Disney World, we checked into a beautiful condo and worked our way over to Universal Studios.  If Disney is your rich and fancy aunt that spoils you with too much gourmet ice cream and unlimited swimming in her fancy pool, leaving you feeling entitled and spoiled when you return to your reality, then Universal Studios is your trashy cousin that loves to party and will spend their entire tax return on booze and drugs and concert tickets to make sure that you have the time of your life for your 21st birthday.  In essence, it's a smaller, cleaner Las Vegas with roller coasters instead of casinos.

Don't get me wrong about Universal though.  If she's your trashy cousin, she works in the highest class strip club there is.  Meaning, they know how to do it up there.  I know this, not because of my limited theme park experience.  Rather, I am a geek for a certain dark haired young man with round glasses and a scar on his forehead.  Having read the Harry Potter series of books more times than I can count, not to mention I am the proud owner of the entire set of movies on Blue-Ray (thanks again to Paula), I am nothing short of an expert when it comes to Hogwarts and beyond, and they nailed it in the attraction The Wizarding World of Harry Potter.  The attention to detail was astounding and I was acting like a 13 year old girl at a One Direction (that's a boy band, right?) concert.  We drank butter beer and we toured Hogwarts and we had wands chosen for us and we played in a quidditch match and I was almost taken away enough to blow $40 on a Gryffindor scarf (good try Universal, but I'm not that big of a sucker).  Outside of Harry Potter, I had no other expectations of Universal.  It ends up, it's a pretty amazing place and the attention to detail is in every part of it from Jurassic Park to The Simpsons.  Unlike Disney, the employees there were a little more real life.  Upon learning that Lucas was denied access to The Hulk roller coaster, the kid running Dr. Doom's Terrifying Death Drop From Hell (or whatever that awful ride was called) let him cut to the front of the line.  AJ even got a free churro from a vendor for no reason.  It's the little things that will keep you coming back again and again (even if it costs $20 for parking in addition the cost of entrance and food and human drying machines).

We spent one fine day of our vacation at the baby brother of the bigger theme parks, Legoland.  My geekdom for Harry Potters pales in comparison to Lucas's obsession with Lego, and there are no shortage of blocks in this park.  The rides were mediocre compared to the human blenders at Universal and Disney, but the Lego sculptures were phenomenal and the pace of the park was so nice and relaxed that it was worth the hour drive to get there.  One of the attractions in the park is a driving school for kids.  Before allowed out on the mini-streets to tote around in cars that look like a Lego version of the Subaru Justy I used to drive, the kids are required to take a driving course complete with video.  While the other kids were shuffling around like jackasses, Lucas took this video and the directions given by the teenage ride staff very seriously.  Once out on the rode, he followed the rules to the letter, but still ended up rear-ending another driver.  "I'm honest, it wasn't my fault!" he said to us the second we found him after the ride.  "I'm honest!"  If I'm honest, he's already a better driver than me.

One of my favorite things about this vacation was taking Lucas to the ocean for the first time.  We had some time to kill earlier in the trip and ended up at Cocoa Beach on a blustery day.  That didn't stop Lucas from getting soaked chasing waves, with the biggest smile on his face that I'd ever seen.  So we decided to head back to the same beach on our last day.  The day was so pretty that I even shaved above the knee (a first time in February that I can remember), and laid in the sun on the beach proudly in my swimsuit with no cover up as if I was a young and hot cast member on 90210.  Lucas jumped wave after wave after wave and we got sand in our hair and our treats and all over our clothes and it was nothing short of wonderful.  I could have laid on that beach forever.

I'm not going to lie, it was tough to come home.  Once we did get home, I actually missed my in-laws.  We had such a great time, and got along so well, and things were so stress free I don't know that I can rightfully refer to it as a family vacation.  Speaking on behalf of Shay, Lucas, and I, it was the rejuvenating get-away that we needed, and we are so grateful to Paula for making it happen and to Anthony (or Tony or AJ) to be there alongside us.  Also, I owe thanks to my Facebook and Instagram followers for putting up with my endless posts, other people's trips can be so annoying.  But you just read this horribly long blog, so I guess you don't mind too much.  I hope you're not too jealous (though I understand if you are).

Sincerely,
h.

A Brief and Unworthy Tribute to 2013

Dear Readers,

I've been wanting to write a blog for you all about this past year.  About how I've transitioned and have grown into my favorite version of myself.  About how Shay and I separated only to find a new way to be closer and better and love each other in a much more realistic and wonderful fashion.  I've wanted to tell you that my mistakes may not have been mistakes at all but necessary messy turns on my life's path and though I'm sorry that I caused pain I'm not sorry that I've picked myself up and brushed myself off and found out that I am a pretty okay person.  Have I mentioned that I broke the year up into three parts of development?  1) Mental health.  2) Physical health.  3) Financial health.  And that by dissecting and disassembling and then finally rebuilding each piece of my life's pie I found my way out of sadness and grief and replaced them with peace of mind?  In 2013 my dad was ill and that was scary and awful, but it reminded me how much I love and admire him.  In the fall I learned to tap dance and learned that  I'm not great at it.  In December I found out that something I'd written had been accepted to be published, and I blushed and was excited and mortified at the same time.  I learned the art of enjoying my home life and gained a fairly substantial distaste for being out late at night.  I hung out with women: gracious, beautiful, smart, successful women, and found that their company is better than I ever imagined it could be with a bunch of girls.  I said goodbye to some dear friends and shipped them off all over the country and the world.  Really, there is so much I want to tell you about.  But I don't know how to write it and I'm not certain that you care anyhow, and to be wholly honest some of it's too personal and some of it's me trying to say I'm sorry to people I have no business apologizing to and a bit of it is a type of therapy for me and maybe I just shouldn't be so open on the World Wide Web.

So instead, here's a piece I wrote at my writing group this morning that I feel pretty okay inside about.  It's called "Rain or Dreams or Both".

Walking on the rooftops of barns I am careful to balance and take one step at a time one foot in front of the next.  I am up so high and my arms are straight out as if I'm ready for flight.  I smell the hay and the wind blows my hair.

The wind blows my hair.

I love my hair long and crazy and being pulled this way and that in your breezy fingers.  I feel alive and I feel you.  I always feel you in the wind.  I hear your whispers and let you kiss me soft and sweet.  It's not passionate it never was it's just you brushing your lips on my cheek and saying so quiet (but it screamed in my heart), "I love you so much I wish I could just show you."

You watch as I walk on the rooftops of barns I can't see you but I feel you and I know whether I fall or not you're going to catch me in your waiting arms and we'll embrace as if we haven't seen each other in years - which is the reality my friend.  It's been far too long.

I love these days your poem etched into my eyelids as I keep them closed to enhance the smell taste feel of the plip plop rain.

The rain scent from the ground
Who else loves the wind and warmth?
Ending all pendings.

How did I get on top of this barn and why is it vital that I balance my clumsy self across it's roof?  I have nothing to prove any more.  I'm no longer a know-it-all rather a person of experience.  My mistakes are my own and I treasure each and every one of them and pull them out from time to time to remind myself that I am capable of falling but able to fly and I love each and every scar like a child.

The barn is brown and not red and the sky is blue but in reality it's gray and murky and it's brooding and full and so obviously has something on it's mind.  It's okay to cry, Sky. My path has led me to empathy and I understand, Sky.  Hold my hand Sky and we'll walk across this rooftop together and we'll be wet with your rain and my tear but we won't be alone at these heights and our friend the wind will be there. 

I love you too.

Sincerely,
h. 

A Thanksgiving Meal for the Books

Dear Readers,

For years I've been stiffing Lucas on attending his school's annual Thanksgiving meal.  Usually with good reason (ie meetings, doctor's appointments, napping, etc.), but this year having run out of excuses and unable to handle his giant puppy dog eyes fraught with the disappointment of having the worst mom ever, I sent in my $3.25 along with my RSVP last week.  With much excitement and anticipation, the day finally arrived!

The flyer said this would be a fancy affair, so Lucas selected his finest polyester clip on tie for the occasion.  I wore a classic black dress, professional high heel shoes, and a jacket reminiscent of my doppelganger, Jackie O.  Frankly, it seems to me that everyone else at the lunch missed the memo.  There were a few dresses here and there, but most kids looked like they rolled out of bed and were simply rushed to school by hurried parents, can you imagine?  Regardless of the poorly attired masses, Lucas and I stood smugly in line, trays in hand. 

The lunch offerings for today were, as you can see, the classic Thanksgiving choices:

The menu was somewhat deceiving.  For one thing, the "veggie bag" only contained carrots, where I feel that the name alludes to a variety of veggies.  Also, there was no fruit that I can see, unless they were counting the weak looking sliced radishes on the "salad" bar as fruit.  Before any of you ask, "Harvest Cake" appeared to be a brown colored spongy food item with a thin layer of white on top.

Lucas has very discerning tastes when it comes to his food.  I know this, because he always likes what I make and often refers to me as the best cooker he knows.  For that reason, I was a bit surprised that he went for the green beans over the veg bag, but I guess we all have our quirks.  Here is he, anxiously awaiting his place at the kitchen window to pick up the rest of his grub:

Finally, after waiting for what seemed like minutes, it was our turn to get our meal.  "Corn dogs or Turkey?" Asked the polite smiling woman in a hairnet.  "Turkey please," said Lucas.  "But no gravy please.  That is gravy right?  Sorry, I wasn't sure."  Also opting for the turkey (with gravy), we both received a healthy plop of mashed potato product, a whole wheat roll, the highly anticipated Harvest Cake, and in Lucas' case, a slop of applesauce.  Obviously we both selected chocolate milk to drink (does anyone drink white milk on purpose?).  Here is my lunch tray, in all it's Thanksgiving glory:

The food aside, what really nailed down the holiday spirit of the occasion were the decorations:

At this point, I would like to just add a side note as a parent, as I feel like this might be a common occurrence.  I have carried a hefty pile of guilt over the years for my lack of presence in Lucas' school life.  I'm not/never will be the president of the PTA, I absolutely do not volunteer for classroom duties, I have a record of attending zero field trips, and to be honest it's a wonder that I remember to send treats for Lucas' birthday.  There are a couple reasons for my lack of interests: other parents, and other children.  There aren't many that I'm fond of.  And I'm certain there are many that aren't fond of me.  I swear a lot.  I let Lucas play violent video games.  I've already discussed sex and periods and the finer aspects of existentialism with my son.  I even let him drink caffeinated soda from time to time.  I find that because of these reasons (plus a gazillion others), there are only a handful of parents that I have common ground with.  So all of that nonsense aside, me entering Lucas' school is me entering unknown territory.  As mentioned earlier though, those puppy dog eyes kill me, so I said yes.  Knowing how excited he was to have me join him, I was very much looking forward to the lunch!  So I was very surprised at how much he ignored me once I was there.  Apparently he wasn't expecting his worlds colliding to be such a weird thing.  So rather than talk (thank goodness for his buddy Mason, keeping up the table's conversation for us!), he just shoveled his food in, Harvest Cake first.

A few quick spoonfuls of grub later, and he was ready to go out to recess and forget that this awkward encounter had ever happened.  I was still "eating" (is there a word for pushing food items around on a tray?) when he said, "So, uh, you gonna stick around here for a while?  Or maybe you should get back to work?" Which I took as a cue that our lunch date had come to an end.  We handed our trays to the kitchen helper, who took one look at my messy swirl of uneaten food and said, "What, you on a diet or something?" and that was that.  I did manage to get one last shot of my date though, much to his dismay ("No one else's parents are taking pictures!"):

Handsome, isn't he?

All joking aside, Roosevelt is an awesome school, and I love that they put this fancy day together.  I am sorry that I chose the turkey over the corndogs though, and so for my own Thanksgiving meal will be preparing those instead.  With a healthy plop of potatoes and veggie bag on the side.

Sincerely,
h.

And That is the Breast of the Story

Dear Readers,

First off, let's just get this out of the way: if you're offended by things like breasts and hilarity, this blog post is not for you.  Stop reading now, Google "baby animals" and enjoy the images.  Otherwise, allow me to welcome you to the story of my morning.

Several years and at least three lifetimes ago when I was a young and dainty 16 years old, I was inducted into a study with the Huntsman Cancer Institute because my family carries the BRCA1 among many other renown gene mutations (ie the "Jackass Gene", "Relief Society Arm Gene", and the "Braegger Bug Eye Gene").  For those of you unfamiliar with BRCA1, it's the high risk breast cancer gene.   You may recall Angeline Jolie having a mastectomy not long ago because she too has the mutation (we have so many things in common!).  Anyhow, out of the three Badger girls, I won the gene lottery and inherited the mutation.  What this means for me is that I go through a lot of extra studies and tests that normal girls my age don't have to go through, which leads me to today's blog.

A couple months ago I had my first mammogram.  It wasn't nearly as exciting as I thought it would be, though it was fairly quick and painless.  The worst part was sitting in a small waiting room with three ladies who were at least 30 years older than me, and in the uncomfortable silence I blurted out, "What are the chances we'd all wear the same blouse?" referring to the hideous open-front hospital shirts we were wearing.  Instead of a laugh or two, I got chided by one of the blue-haired ninnies who said, "I don't think now is the time for jokes!"  Personally, I don't think there is a better time for jokes.  Anyhow, after the mammogram and a very lengthy four hour long consultation with the St. Luke's High Risk Breast Cancer Clinic (which I must say is comprised with a lovely group of people.  Seriously, they are the best!), the breast oncologist suggested that I get an MRI done as well.  "Sure!" I said.  "Whatever you think!  Plus, I have a couple thousand bucks just sitting around that I'd love to spend!" And the appointment was made.

They called me last week to brief me on the MRI, and told me that I couldn't have anything to drink within two hours of my appointment (which was set for 8:45am).  I woke up extra early this morning so I could follow their rules, but still have a cup of coffee.  I mention this, because had I not done that this story may have ended in murder.  But thankfully, I went into my appointment fully caffeinated.  Wearing a dress with footless tights, the sweet lady checking me in says, "You'll probably be more comfy in your tights than scrub pants, so why don't you just keep them on?  Just put on the scrub top and that should be fine!" I want to point out that I'm wearing tights: sheer, black tights.  Not leggings.  Not Spanx.  Just one-step-away-from-nylons tights.  And though tasteful, my undergarments are also sheer.  Also, being a Badger girl and what not, I was born "ranch-ready", meaning most people don't want to see me gallivanting about in tight anything.  So I step into the MRI room in my tights and a scrub shirt that barely covers my ass, and low and behold instead of the nice lady I had been working with, there stand two young and handsome male MRI techs!

Luckily, these young men were just as surprised to see me as I was them.  Apparently not a lot of women under the age of 50 come into their unit for breast exams.  Already, I'm mortified because it has occurred to me that they will be able to see right through my tights to my not appropriate at all for the occasion underpants, not to mention that I'll be completely exposed from the waste up.  "Hi.  Oh shit.  Hi," I said (sorry Mom!).  Fumbling his way through putting my IV in ("This is usually really easy for me!" He said), the youngster tells me to kneel on the MRI table, lift my shirt, and lower myself into the cutouts meant for my chestal region.  So I do as I'm told, and as awkwardly as possible fall into the holes where I feel a lot like a dairy cow must while preparing to be milked.  My butt exposed, the guy says, "Maybe you'll be more comfortable if you have a blanket." To which I quickly replied, "Maybe you'll be more comfortable if I have a blanket," and then added, "I'm sorry.  I think I'm hilarious when I'm nervous.  I should just say this is easily the most awkward situation I've ever been in, and I've been in a few."  He laughed as he adjusted my womanhood into the holes, "Don't worry.  This is awkward for me too, ha ha ha."

Finally, the adjusting is done, and I'm laying exposed and uncomfortable in a position that would never be appealing to anyone ever, and he sticks a set of headphones on me and asks me what radio station I prefer.  "Radio Boise please, 89.9," I reply, at least relieved that I can listen to Antler Crafts while I'm stuck in a tube.  "Sure thing!  This should take about 40 minutes.  It's really important that you don't move at all.  Take small breaths.  Don't cough.  Any movement could really mess this up, and we'll have to start all over.  Here we go!"  He pushes me back into the machine, and starts piping music into my ears.  It takes me two seconds to realize there's been a terrible mistake.  Instead of 89.9, he set the radio dial to 89.5, the Christian Rock station, and here I am strapped face down to a board, udders swinging, unable to move for 40 hellish minutes listening to the awful, horrible sounds of "HOLY HOLY HOLY" ringing through my head.  "I'm in Hell," I thought. "I'm a terrible person because I call people retarded and I laugh at jokes that I shouldn't laugh at and I really don't like dogs that much and I really hate some kids out there and I am now in Hell because I'm THE WORST."

Finally, 40 long minutes later, the hot guy comes in, pulls me out of the tube and removed the blasted headphones from my head.  I'm dizzy from laying face down and he has to catch me as I stumble off of the MRI table (still exposed, mind you) helps me get dressed and practically pushes me out of the MRI room.  I'm so thankful, so relieved to not be in this Christian Rock nightmare any more that it's only as I'm zipping up my dress that I realize that I still have the IV port in my arm.  "Shit," I said again.  It was my hope to never see these guys again.  But instead, I stumble back into the MRI room and just hold out my arm without a word.  "Oh, sorry about that," says the guy, quickly removing it, never making eye contact.  As I walk out the room and towards the exit, I passed the gal who had checked me in, "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" She cheerfully said.  I looked at her and looked away and kept walking without saying anything.

And that is the breast of the story.

Sincerely,
h.

 

Share With You

Dear Readers,

Most Saturdays, my friends Heidi and Catie and I meet around a small table outside of the Record Exchange and participate in what we like to call "Writing Group".  It is, indeed, exactly as it sounds. We bring our notebooks and we buy our $1.00 cups of coffee and come up with topics and time our writing.  Both Heidi and Catie are legitimate, talented writers.  I just love to write, and feel honored that I get to sit at their table.  After we finish a piece
, we take turns sharing what we've written.  Only able to speak for myself, I find this practice to be both humbling and therapeutic, but more encouraging than anything.  The writings from these sessions typically aren't "show pieces", rather rough drafts that may or may not grow up into bigger works.  I've spurred some of my own writings into blogs on this very site.

Today, however, I would like to share with you something that I wrote at our last group.  The topic, as given by Catie, was themed "Share With You".  The idea came from a poem she read aloud to us, and it was a cleverly written list of things the writer would like to share with a child; in turn, we carried that theme into our own writings.  It's an interesting thing to consider.  Children are so much smarter than adults.  They sop up their environments and like a biscuit.  We adults do not give them nearly enough credit.  We lie to them, thinking it's for their own good.  We mock them, talk down to them, trick them. And they learn this from us!  For shame, adults, for shame.  Anyhow (sorry for the rant), I have read and re-read my own few paragraphs on the subject and thought, "That's not half bad."  So I read and re-read my few paragraphs to Shay and he said, "That's actually good." (Always surprised at the good, that one).  So I'm going to now share my few paragraphs with you, though it's nowhere near a show piece.  However, I think the subject is thought provoking, and I would be remiss if I didn't encourage you to consider what you would share with a child in your own life.

Here goes nothing:

The Dalai Llama spoke to me once (granted it was through a television screen, but I'm absolutely sure that he was talking to me), and said that the transference of compassion is a natural occurrence at birth, a gift given only by the mother directly to the new-born human.  A gift predetermined by biology.  A gift the father, the doctor or midwife, the millions of other souls out there cannot possibly give.  Only Mom.  So when I gave birth to my baby, as young, as stupid as I was, my heart was overflowing with love and compassion and that darling baby boy (even with a hole in his heart!) accepted every ounce of that gift.  Easily the most important thing to teach him.  And all I had to do was birth him.

Now that the foundation is set, and his life in in progress, and he can rinse his dishes and unlock the front door and ride a bike and tie his shoes, my focus is teach him humanity, which can be counterintuitive to compassion.  Say no.  Set boundaries.  Let your heart be broke, but not too broke.  Listen to records that make you want to scratch the feeling from your feelings.  Defy me.  Prove me wrong.  Stand your ground.  Be tender.  Be honest - always, horribly honest.  Make mistakes, oh that's a big one.  Even bigger?  Recover from mistakes.

I teach and I teach and I have no idea I'm doing it.  What a funny thing it is to discuss semantics and existentialism and death and love and space and time and everything - EVERYTHING - with a child.  Fresh eyes and unblemished heart and virgin ideals.  Who am I kidding?  Cliche and obvious, he is my teacher.  He is my sensei.  And we just kind of stumble and learn from this life together.

There you have it!  That was my piece.  While I still have one foot remaining on my soapbox, I'd like to remind you: don't talk to kids, converse with them.  Respect their ideas, their feelings, their incredibly fast growing brains.  They are smarter than you.  They learn how to yell from you.  They will resent you for lying to them (yes, even you.  Every lie you tell is just another reason to destroy their relationship with you when they get old enough to learn the truth).  Now that you know, you're accountable.  Sorry.

Special thanks to Heidi and Catie, I love you both.  You make me a better writer and a better person.

Sincerely,
h.

We're All People After All

Dear Readers,

Since my last post, I have tried and tried and tried again to write this particular blog, and failed at every attempt.  I think the reason why is because I still had more to learn on the subject.  I had the idea, the words jumbled in my head trying to make sense of each other, but they just wouldn't fall into place.  So I started talking about it instead, at length with several of my friends.  Gathering their experiences like berries, one after the other.  Each story confirmed my thesis, however.  And this blog is the result.

A few months ago, on Memorial Day in fact, I was sitting around the cherished yellow table in my parent's kitchen, chatting with my dad and Grandpa Jack about some family history my dad has been working on.  His research and writings focus on a man named John Chamberline Badger, Grandpa Jack's grandpa.  I've heard stories on this man at length, but never much about his wife, so I was asking questions about her.  Grandpa, who is well into his nineties, recalled being a young child and having his Grandma Isabella calling him "Little John".  He recounted some stories about her, but also about his childhood in general.  One of which that sticks out to me was about him and his brothers swimming in the canal on hot days, then laying in the cool dirt on the canal banks in the sun to dry off.  I loved this visual, and had a crystal clear picture of it in my head.  It occurred to me (possibly for the first time) that my grandpa was a child at some point.  He hadn't always been the older gentleman I've known for 30 some years.  He had lived through the depression, World War II, owned a business, helped build a community, married my grandma, raised 4 children, and retired all before I was born.  What?  How is that possible?  Grandparents are people.

A few weeks later, I was at that glorious place they call Banbury.  This is the first summer I can recall that I didn't go swimming once.  Rather I stayed around the campground, stuffing my face with as much food as possible, enjoying the conversations of my relatives.  It was a special year, as all of the Braegger siblings were there, something that hasn't happened in years.  Though I had heard several of the stories they have told before, hearing them as an adult was a completely different experience.  Compound that with being an adult fresh out of crisis, and it made me especially senstive to the topics at hand.  I have always (and probably always will) held my now deceased grandparents, Cal and Hazel, in the highest regard.  From my early memories they shine as examples of compassion and nurturing.  So it was surprising for me to hear stories of their struggles as a young couple raising a young family; the hardships put on their kids from moving around (even just from Rupert to Paul).  Once again, I found myself in the place I had just a few weeks earlier, of realizing that entire lives were lived before I was even born; that mistakes had been made, that grudges had been carried, that they hadn't always been the people that I knew.  Looking around the camp ground at my aunts and uncles, people that I love and adore and have cherished any amount of attention and love they have given me, and realizing that they are people to.  That they've been faced with decisions and choices and not always making the best ones, that they have struggled and suffered.  It made me feel better in a way, more adult and human, to know them and sit among them. Aunts and uncles are people.

My mom and dad are great people, there is no doubt of that.  As it happens to most everyone, there have been a few ups and downs that have made us more aware of our fragility and humanity lately. It's days like these that you will find yourself vulnerable, which in my opinion is a blessing, because that's when you're at your most willing and able to acknowledge what's important and necessary and let go of the frivolities that can become so burdomsome.  I'm not sure about you, but to see my parents in such a spot tears my heart open and turns the tables a bit, making me want to step into the roll of protector and swap duties with them for a while.  I have friends who have done this; taken over the role of parent to their parent.  Making sure food is on the table, that their siblings are cared for.  Cleaning the house and burying dead pets.  I have friends who have cared for their parents when they've lost their sanity or their health or in some cases both.  I have friends who haven't spoken to their parents in years, who have walked away from a relationship that was never fostered to begin with.  I have friends who blame their parents for their own weaknesses, who resent them for their money and their success, who feel that they will only let them down.  I have friends who are best friends with their mom and dad, that can talk with them about everything from sex to politics, their beliefs and their fears, without a trace of shame or a hint of guilt and receive solid advice and unconditional love in return.  I have learned lessons of humility and graciousness from my own parents this year, and I am grateful for that.  I have learned also that there is so much about them that I don't know, that like my grandparents and aunts and uncles, they have lived entire lives before I was born.  Though I don't know what nor do I know if it's my business to, they have made mistakes, have had heartbreak, and have maybe even stood in some of the same crossroads I have, having to make the decisions to go forward or back, or take a new road completely.  I don't know why it's taken me so long, but I'm gladd to be at the age that I can see them this way, appreciate their humanity outside of their parenthood.  My parents are people.

In twenty years or so, I wonder what Lucas will realize about his own parents.  I wonder how he'll view us through those beautifully lashed eyes.  It's easy for me to say right now that we'll always be close; that he will come to us with all of his problems and triumphs; that Shay and I will stand behind all of his choices and decisions.  I wonder if he'll blame me for his tender heart when it gets broken for the first time or shake his fist at Shay for his overprotection.  I can't imagine it now, and I hope beyond hope that everything will go flawlessly and he will live out every ounce of his potential and at the end of it all he'll say, "Thanks Mom and Dad!".  But, it must be said, children are people.

I have to admit this overly wordy blog didn't turn out the way I had intended it to, but I think I got my point across none-the-less.  It's nice to be at a point to look around and see everyone as peers and fellow humans.  It's nice to learn and grow in my own humanity.  As it ends up, I am people too.

Sincerely,
h.

Adult Onset Puberty: Surviving "The Change"

Dear Readers,

When I was in 6th grade at Big Valley Elementary School, they split the boys and girls up and quarantined us in separate rooms to have "the talk" with us.  It was terrifying and confusing and exhilarating.  First of all, coming from a very mormon home, subject matter did not include anything relating to the human body or it's natural biological functions; rather we were told to wear dresses on Sunday and weren't allowed to sport sleeveless shirts (oh the allure of upper arms!) or shorty shorts.  Morality was closely related to clothing, but wait, what's morality?  Sorry, I'm getting sidetracked.  Back to my 11 year old self.  So there we were, all of the 6th grade girls, shoved into a classroom with female teachers, a few progressive moms, and Nurse Nancy the hyper-active school nurse that had a holiday themed sweater for everything from Arbor Day to Lincoln's Birthday.  After a brief and over stimulating introduction, Nurse Nancy started a video featuring a bunch of girls around my same age that just happened to all get their period on the same night at a slumber party, so the host mom explained the changes their bodies were going through by drawing lady parts with pancake batter.  I mean, who doesn't want an ovary-shaped pancake for breakfast?  Delish!  After the pancakes were eaten and all of their obvious questions were answered, all of the girls were STOKED to go through puberty.  Nurse Nancy pressed stop on the VCR, asked if there were any questions (which was mortifying for her to insinuate that one of us might have the audacity to ask a humiliating question), fed us a cinnamon roll and sent us back our classrooms, where we were awkwardly reunited with our male classmates and spent the rest of the day wondering just what the hell was going on.

It was a kind gesture, adults trying to tell us what we were about to experience, giving us fair warning that hormones would kick in and effectively take over our entire lives soon.  However, the mom in the video did not capture the absolute  hell that being a pre-pubescent teen really is in her pancake demonstration.  There was nothing about the basics of surviving junior high mentioned.  At no point in the video did any of the girls increase their bra size by 2 full cup sizes in a matter of weeks.  I don't recall that cramps were experienced, that acne prevailed, or that boys would act like complete idiots and say the worst things to you in an effort to conceal their own awkward emotions.  That video, and Nurse Nancy for that matter, was full of lies and deceit.

I guess I should be grateful after harboring such resentment for the lies told to me about going through "the change" as a child that no one showed me a video about going through adult puberty in my 30's.  Granted I'm not developing at the rapid rate I was at the age of 11, however the similarities are uncanny.  Hormone changes, body image issues, moods swings (which is a nice way of saying manic depression), identity crisis, and making irrational rebellious choices have all been a huge part of my development over the last couple years.  It ends up, it's not just me.  I know a lot of women, I mean A LOT of women, who have hit their early 30's and went through similar experiences.  I'm sure that men do to, but for some reason we still seem to be learning about these things in separate rooms.

As I was reflecting over the last several months and the leaps and bounds I've made in my personal progression as a functioning adult, it occurred to me just how similar the last few years have been to my days as a pre-teen.  At that age, you struggle because you feel like you're old enough to start making your own decisions, but your parents know that you don't have the experience to make all of those decisions and hold you back until you're ready.  In your early thirties you haven't quite yet established your career, but you've been around long enough that you know you should be reaping a few of the benefits that upper management is getting.  If you don't have kids but want them, all you can see are the people who have kids (or vice-versa; my sisters and I often look at people our age without kids and think enviously to ourselves, "they have it SO EASY."), which is akin to that pair of jeans that "...stupid so and so got but my mom is too cheap to spend $100 on pants and she's ruining my life!".  Searching for meaning in life.  Staying up late eating junk food watching junk tv.  Listening to the saddest music.  Filling journals with emotional vomit and horrible poetry.  The list of commonalties goes on and on.

I'm writing this as a message of hope though, to those women (and possibly men, but I'm pretty sure that women got the short end of this stick too) who are experiencing Adult Onset Puberty.  I made it through it!  After months of psycho-therapy, a near divorce, a few bottles of Jameson, and hours upon hours of crying on the shoulders of my friends, I can say that I have reached the calmest, most collected, sparkling honest, and rewarding time in my life.  I can't tell you the relief, the joy, the absolute refreshment of having done so.  It will happen for you too, I just know it!  Here are a few tips I picked up on this journey from Hell:

1.  Nurturing vs. Co-Dependency: there is a difference.  Learn it.
2.  The grass may be greener, but that's only because it's full of pesticides and other harmful chemicals so it's best to stay in your own yard to avoid making your life toxic.
3.  In the great scheme of things very few of your problems are really anything at all.
4.  Truth is painful and ugly and embarrassing but is always the best option.  I assure you, the pain is far less than that of the alternative.
5.  You are what you eat.  You reap what you sow.  The love you make is equal to the love you take.

Please, take my advice.  It will help, I guarantee it.  And it will save you a lot of money (psychiatrist's ain't cheap, my friends).  In case this blog just doesn't explain it well enough, come on over and I'll be happy to make some reality shaped pancakes for you.

Sincerely,
h.

Gimme Your Hands Cause You're Wonderful

Dear Readers,

Once, years and years ago in another lifetime, I worked at Moxie Java.  I had just finished a book on my shift, and after telling a regular customer of mine about the book, he asked if he could borrow it, and I let him.  You should know that I have a bad habit of writing in my books, one of the many reasons that I can't jump on the e-book train.  Poetry, journal entries, phone numbers, airline confirmation codes, the most important things all get written down in the book I'm reading at the time.  So, back to my story, I handed over my book to my customer, forgetting that I had written a poem on the back cover.  A couple weeks later, the customer approached the counter and when handing me my book, recited from memory my poem word for word.  I was shocked and embarrassed.  Not because the poem was very personal (because it was), but because he was intrigued by it and more than that he had mistaken me for a poet. 

Today, I sit at my desk where I should be working, and have "Rock and Roll Suicide" by David Bowie (a true poet) playing on repeat loud enough that I expect the new neighbors to complain at any moment.  Under the same impulse that I write in my books, I type away on my computer, putting my emotional dribble on the internet for everyone or none to read.  Although I appreciate those who take the time to read it, especially those who have no criticism to offer, I write my blog for myself.  It has always been an outlet for me, writing that is.  I have journals filled to the brim with my illegible hand writing, documenting even the most mundane days of my life starting at the age of 7.  It's important to me though, all of these words, every tattered notebook, even the 90 or so entries included in this blog's history.  A living history all my own, with all of it's ups and downs and circular thinking.

I've been contemplating writing a heavy handed blog entry on the most recent events of my life (which my last entry eluded to), but have decided against it.  At this point it's not about the tsunami anymore, but the beauty of rebuilding after the water has calmed down.  I've made some big discoveries about myself.  For instance, I am a valued and beautiful person.  And what's more, I genuinely like myself.  How strange!  33 years of displeasure and self-loathing, only to find at my absolute lowest point in life that I've been so much harder on myself than any one person ever should be.  That's not to say that I should earn your respect, Dear Reader.  Because I am human, and have made some major mistakes.  I am not immune from hurting others.  I fail and flail and fall.  Ye without sin, please feel free to strike the first letter key in response; I have a feeling though that we're all in this slowly sinking boat together, bright orange life vests made of broken promises and unspoken apologies.  I'll do my best to rescue myself though, and pull you up along side me.

Now that it's springtime and the daffodils are in bloom, my hope is renewed and my excitement for warmth and comfort grows.  There's not a better place to be than Boise in the spring and summer.  A couple of my dearly missed friends have made their way home.  There is an energy in the air that lifts my spirits and my heart, reminding me moment by moment that life is happening and I'm privileged to be a part of it.  A poet I am not.  But an active participant in life I am learning to be.  My heart breaks over and over for those that I've lost or hurt along the way, helping me get to this point, but it's a grateful heart that's breaking because those lessons were necessary for me to reach this new place.  I'm so grateful.  I'm so sorry.

And to you, Dear Reader, thank you for reading and giving life to my words.  I hope that one or two of them help you out once in a while.

Sincerely,
h.

In Progress: A Journey of One Million Apologies

Dear Readers,

Early last week, my car was filthy from the winter weather.  I had a few minutes before I had to be at an appointment, so I swung into the Metro Carwash.  The last few weeks have been rough, to say the least.  Day after day after day of contemplation, regret, confusion, long conversations, remorse, and more regret.  So sitting in that carwash, with the soap sliding down my windows and windshield, the thought came to me that I had control over this one thing: the cleanliness of my car.  The moment that thought finished, the carwash broke down.  Completely.  My car covered in suds.  I started laughing, really hard.  Hard enough that when the young carwash employee knocked on my window to give me a free coupon, I'm sure he thought I was a lunatic.  If he hadn't thought that yet, he must have for sure after saying to me, "You'll have to drive straight ahead.  It's going to be really bumpy, but you can't stop.  Just keep moving."  Because that sent me into a laughing frenzy.  "I give," I said to no one and everyone all at the same time.

So.  It ends up, that I am capable of making bad choices.  Not just bad.  Disastrous choices.  With huge ripple effects that don't seem to ever stop.  Did you know I could do that?  Me neither.  None-the-less, with my high and mighty moral self put to rest, I have reached  new levels of humility and sorrow.  I have damaged my little sturdy family, I have destroyed some friendships with people that I care for very much, and I have (as someone once promised me I would) evolved into the most open and honest version of myself.  Although that would seemingly be a good thing, and I think in the big picture it is, the truth can be an exfoliant to the soul.  There is nothing soft and smooth about it's surface.  However when it's done scouring your heart, you're left with something that's shiny, as if it's new.  I was never much of a liar to begin with, I value truth and integrity greatly.  I was an expert, however, at not seeing what I did not want to see, and it just so happens that there are worlds of ignored truth out there, just waiting for me to shine light on it.  It's not pretty.  It's very scary and intimidating.  In the end, it will be good to have waded through all of the muck, and put it all behind me.  I can't wait until it's all behind me.

Finally, I have learned one more lesson through this mess I've made.  I have one hell of a support group.  Doors have been opened and I've been invited in.  I've had love come at me from all directions, and in massive amounts.  I had, at the onset of this disaster, prepared myself to be alone.  Prepared myself for hatred and criticism.  Prepared myself for the repercussions  that I surely and without a doubt deserve(d).  It's been so humbling, so very heart warming, to find that I am not alone and am instead a part of a most gracious, loving, and forgiving community.

I feel like a new person.  I feel like a full fledged adult. There are huge changes to come, a whole new life in a way.  I have some big decisions to make, and some even bigger apologies to give.  I don't know if there are enough "I'm sorry's" in the world for me to give.  I have so many to give.  And I can't ask for forgiveness.  Not for me anyway.  I'm moving forward though, and I'm excited for the future, excited for my new life.  There is so much good out there, so much love, and I want nothing more than to contribute to it, to give back some of what I've received.

Sincerely,
h.

P.S.  I have gone on a sabbatical from Facebook.  If you feel so inclined, would you mind sharing a link to my blog on your page?  I sure would appreciate it.  xoxo

To My Heart, With Love

Dear Readers,

I have been accused all of my life of having a tender heart.  I say accused, because it hasn't always been observed in a kindly manner; it was just a nice way of calling me a cry baby.  People in my life have gone to great extent to not trigger the rush of tears that accompany something that touches my heart.  They have downplayed illness, "forgot" to tell me of the death of an old friend, forbidden me from watching emotional movies, and the list goes on.  It's understandable that for a long time, I too considered my extra sensitive nature to be a vice, not a virtue.  My heart was more of a stumbling block than a force for good.  Nothing but a trigger of embarrassment that my sister's would use against me in vulnerable times by reminding me that (spoiler alert!) Beth dies in "Little Women", because it was certain to make me cry on the spot.

Tender as it is, I find that I have little to no option to follow anything else in life besides my heart.  As I've grown older, I've recognized it's sensitivities to be intuition, compassion and empathy. Although I find these qualities to be important and necessary, they do not always lead me down the easiest path.  It's not rare for my heart and mind to battle; logic and being reasonable often lose to doing what feels right.  I sound like such a hippie saying that, but it's true none-the-less.  It's gotten me in trouble more than once.  I've even (though I hate to admit it) been wrong about what I thought was the right thing to do based on feeling.  More often than not though, I find myself in extraordinary situations that reaffirm my intuition and reward my heart beyond measure.  This past week I found myself in the midst of just such an experience.

I met my friend Caitlyn several years ago at a dinner party my friend Jenny was having.  I remember details about her clearly, though I don't remember much else from that night.  She approached me and introduced herself to me, although I don't know that she needed to because from the minute I laid eyes on her I felt I had known her for years.  Throughout the years of our friendship, we have shared a lot of good and bad times with each other, along with a select few other lovely ladies we are so lucky to know.  Even though we have the kind of friendship that is sturdy on it's own, not requiring daily nourishment or constant contact, we have floated and in and out as if we know exactly the right time to be there for each other.  As it happens, we had come together again early last spring when Caitlyn called me to tell me she was pregnant, and I thought that tender heart of mine my burst because of the thrill I felt for her.

For those of you who have never been pregnant, it is both an exhilarating and terrifying experience.  They are, without doubt, the best and worst of times.  Knowing what Caitlyn could be facing, I followed that tender little heart of mine straight into her life again, and what a blessing it has been.  Watching Caitlyn grow and prepare for her new role as a mother has been a beautiful and wonderful time.  It's not easy to do, you know, but she made the transition with a grace I've never seen before.  I was so excited for her when the labor she had so patiently waited for finally started on Monday.  She asked me to come to her apartment while she was in the early stages to hang out with her and her mom.  Upon arriving I sat on the floor next her and we talked and laughed and worked through her contractions when they appeared.  Juju, her sweet Great Dane, had hurt her back that day and couldn't get off her bed, so I sat and comforted her while we chatted.  Heidi, another dear friend of mine and Caitlyn's doula, came and we enjoyed this strange and exciting time together.  As things started to get moving though, the atmosphere changed and we prepared things for Caitlyn to make the move to the Boise Birthing Center.  My intentions were to go home and wait for the call, but I was asked to follow along.

I feel as though I would be overstepping my bounds to describe the rest of the night.  So I will skip to the next morning, when I got out of bed and processed the events from the night before.  I had slept very little, but I didn't care.  My heart was overflowing, and so were tears from my eyes.  I cried all morning.  It occurred to me that I had the extraordinary privilege to help one of my friends leave this life and to help another welcome a new life.  I am, indeed, very blessed to have done so.  Holding that sweet very new born baby is an experience that I will never, ever forget.  As my friend Brion put it, "You were there for your friend for the most important event of her life."

Which brings me back to my ridiculous heart.  I can't help it, my nature to nourish and smother.  There is nothing to be done about it.  I know I drive my friends and family crazy, that I often overstep my bounds with the intention of helping.  I care too damn much.  I owe a debt of gratitude to my tender heart though, because it has lead me into the depths of the richest experiences of my life.  What a humbling thing, to have such wonderful and amazing people invite me to share in their lives.  I very much look forward to continue on in my dear friendship with Caitlyn, and to holding and loving her new sweet baby girl.  Thank you, thank you, thank you for the rejuvenating and life changing experience of letting me be your friend.

Sincerely,
h.

Merry Christmas Blah, Blah, Blah

Dear Readers,

Here we are again, the shadow of Christmas looming over us like a big tacky giant, wanting to be friendly but accidentally squashing us in the process.  That's not to say, "Bah hum bug."  I'm not that much of a downer.  I am enough of a downer to wish Christmas a speedy hello and goodbye, and get back to life as normal though.

I wasn't always like this, you know.  My disdain for the season is a result of many years working behind retail or coffee counters, assisting frantic and grouchy customers as they spent their hard earned dollars on undeserving family and friends.  A few years working for the airlines and being yelled at by stressed passengers didn't help either.  Culminate that with the loss of significant loved ones, and you've got the perfect recipe for a spoiled holiday season.  I am remiss though, if I don't talk about the time in my life when it was a joy and delight, heart warming and much craved.

As a child growing up in Rupert, I was fortunate to live near both sets of my grandparents.  Grandpa Jack and Grandma Donna (the Badgers) lived about a mile from us down H Street.  Grandpa Cal and Grandma Hazel (the Braeggers) were just a hop skip and a jump past the sugar beet factory in a tiny town called Paul.  Our family had a very strict Christmas schedule: Christmas Eve in Paul with the Braegger clan, Christmas morning (directly after opening Santa's gifts) was spent at my Aunt Nan's house for brunch, and then over to Grandma and Grandpa Badger's for Christmas dinner.  Every turn was filled with food and family, so much love and joy (not to mention a good dose of fighting with my sisters).

Not to downplay the events of Christmas day, as they hold a very dear and special place in my memory, but my Christmas Eve's spent in Paul were by far my favorite.  You've read posts about the Braegger's before; I've written about our reunions at Banbury Hot Springs a few times before.  My mom is the baby sister of 5 kids: Jed, Nan, Ruth, Wally, and Kristie.  I am 2nd from the bottom in a pile of grandkids (not counting the great-grandkids, that is).  On Christmas Eve, we'd come from near and far to Grandpa's cinder block house, located right on the highway, the giant willow trees in front waving their welcome.  Through the office door and out of the cold, when you'd open the door into the house you'd be greeted by a wall of inviting heat, my grandpa insisting on keeping his coal fireplace at full roar so the little ones wouldn't get cold.  On the yellow kitchen table (which now resides at my mom and dad's house), food would be piled, my aunts and grandma laughing in the kitchen as they prepared the grandest of meals.  The men in the living room, with football or whatever on the television (was anyone even watching?), taking turns chatting and napping.  And the grandkids, running circles around the house, or doing cartwheels into the Christmas tree, or trying on our mom's old prom dresses and high heels, trying to see through the broken lenses of the discarded cat eye glasses.  Most likely you would find us by the old hi-fi, listening to the Chipmunks Christmas Album, singing at the top of our lungs.  When dinner was served, the young ones would shove their faces as quickly as possible (why didn't I savor those meals more?), anticipating the gift opening that would take place directly after pie was served.  Then my sweet grandpa, would start with the youngest grandchild and one by one we would open our gifts.  We never wanted to leave, even with the suspense of Santa coming. Those times were the best times, and even as small children we recognized it.

Look at me, wax nostalgic.  Once I get started it's hard to stop, so please forgive me.  Last year my parents started a new tradition where my sister's and I pack up our families and we drive to Tamarack to spend the weekend together in a beautiful cabin.  We just celebrated our Badger family Christmas last weekend, and it renews some of that same spirit I had as a child.  Warm and comfortable, with piles of food and a lot of laughter, it reminds me of what Christmas should be.  I'm stoked to share this time with Lucas and Shay, to give them a taste of what was and is so important to me.

Putting aside my disdain, I would like to wish you all the happiest of holidays.  I hope they are spent in the company of those you love, be it family or friends, and are full of food and laughter and whatever you need to get through the day. 

Sincerely,
h.

To My Tribe: A Belated Thank You

Dear Readers,

The term "Urban Tribe" was introduced to me by a friend at a baby shower we were having for our dear friend Caitlyn the other day.  We were discussing how we would all be battling for time with Caitlyn and her baby girl, already dreaming up schedules to be on-call for them.  I mentioned how lucky I am to be part of a group of friends and community that supports each other so much; that I rely heavily on for help with raising Lucas, as well as support for myself and Shay.  That's when Jen introduced the term to me, saying that people of our generation (although normally close and in good relations with their blood family) have learned to create and depend on bonds with their friends that have in the past been reserved for family.  How true that is.  I've said it before, and I'll say it many times again: my closest friends are family to me.  Good news, bad news, or any news at all, they are the first on my call list.

As we inch nearer to Thanksgiving, and we take time to reflect on what we are grateful for, my heart swells and overflows with affection for my tribe.  With that in mind, I would like to take this opportunity to say thank you for the support and love you offered with open arms and hearts during the worst of times.  It's taken me a long time to be able to issue this thanks with any sort of tangibility, but I'm happy to now be in a spot where it's both possible and necessary.  You see, when Loren was first sick, I reached out for your help, and you responded greatly.  My vision was to give Lojo a little inkling of the support and love that was behind him, and I was able to create a book for him that with each page reminded him that he was loved.  I was nervous when I gave him the book, not sure if it was the right thing to do after all.  He looked through it once.  And then again.  Then one more time.  He didn't say anything, just sat shaking his head in a yes fashion looking one page at a time.  This is what he saw:

Aaron

Jesse

Jason

Lucas

PL

Greg R.

Heidi

Matt

Chris

Courtney

Jennifer

Jenny

Michelle

Sarah

Addison

Alex

Beth

Mike

Becky and Catie

Rachel

Shay

Chris (again)

Drew, Lacey, Trace, Rhys

Heidi and Bubba

Sam

These two weirdos.

Erynn

Saratops

Marie

Arran

This Cat

Greg G.

Hott Scott

Davey

Brittany

All of Boise

As you can see, this is a pretty big tribe.  You might be surprised to learn that this doesn't even scratch the surface (I'm missing some of the pictures; I'm sorry if I missed anyone who contributed).  If I had a picture of everyone that offered their love and support, this blog would break records for it's length.  Loren was grateful for and touched by your expressions of love.  So was/am I.

Look around you, look at those who are close to you, family or not.  Identify the bonds that are the strongest.  When you think of strength, who's the first that comes to mind?  When you yearn for company, who do you wish it was with?  Find your tribe.  Add them to your grateful list.  Then call them, text them, whatever way you prefer to reach out, just do it.  Let them know how you feel.  It is so important.  It's so easy.

Hey, you!  Yeah you!  You know who you are, my nearest and dearest.  I love you!  SO MUCH.  Thank you, thank you, thank you, for the rest of my life thank you.  You have made all the difference.

Sincerely,
h.