I recently stumbled across this journal entry about my dad and it made me smile. It was written a few days after I finished my final round of chemotherapy. He would have turned 70 this Sunday. I really miss him. Maybe it's time to make a call to heaven...
I had a dream about my dad this morning. I called his old number and he answered the phone--turns out he was answering from heaven. At first he was a little grumbly (my dad always had a grumbly side) but when I asked, "Don't you wanna talk to your Cricket?" he perked up and said of course he did. I asked what he was doing and he said he had to work. It was a Sunday in my dream and I said I was surprised he had to work--I thought for sure there would be no work in heaven on Sunday. He said there was always work to do and asked if I wanted to go out for Chinese food later. I asked if I could invite my friend Nicole. He said yes and we talked about where to go.
I woke up feeling like I had really talked to him. It was so nice to hear his voice--deep and calm and even a bit grumbly. I grabbed my phone from the bedside table and called his old phone number. I knew I wouldn't reach him but hoped his voicemail would pick up and I would really get to hear his voice. I got the standard operator greeting saying the number had been disconnected. I hung up and felt a strange craving for Chinese food.
I got out of bed and brought the dogs outside. My heart felt so full of life. What a beautiful day! I sat on the steps and felt the sun and breeze on my bald head. It felt amazing. When I looked up at the cottony white clouds in the vibrant blue sky, I knew that my dad was there, he was everywhere. I had an overwhelming feeling that today was the start of something new, and that everything was going to be OK. No more chemo, no more cancer, no more pain. And although I couldn't reach my dad by phone, he would always be with me, helping guide me through my journey.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Friday, October 21, 2011
First best friend
I have a brother Bill who is a year younger than me. I was born small so as toddlers we were the same size. Strangers often mistook us for twins. I remember clearly one evening when I was around four years old, and Bill was three. We were hanging out with my dad at a Chinese restaurant, waiting for our take-out order to be ready. Another customer commented how we were adorable twins. I didn't get it then, but looking at pictures later I could see it.
I'm pretty sure Bill and I had a secret language long before we could speak English. And we often mimicked each other. My brother dragged around a raggedy security blanket that was referred to as a "nightie" and sucked his thumb. I did too. I wore a spiky ponytail at the top of my head that I called a "tree." Bill insisted on having one too. A natural athlete, Bill played hockey from the time he could walk. A klutzy girl who fell down regularly, I begged my parents to let me play on his all-boy team despite my balance issues. We followed each other everywhere, exploring every corner of our house, yard and neighborhood together. We made believe that we were sailing on a ship or managing a department store in our basement or attic. We constructed elaborate forts out of furniture and blankets. We created cities in the dirt for our Tonka trucks and Matchbox cars. We had picnics of graham crackers and mini marshmallows in the back yard. We cruised around on anything that rolled--Big Wheels, bikes, go-carts, skateboards. He was my best friend and confidant. We were inseparable.
As we got older, Bill began to torture me by crashing every sleepover I ever had from the time I turned 12. He, and sometimes his friends, would pull practical jokes on me and the girls, or try to scare us. Often he would just barge in my room and start punching me in front of my friends. At that time, it was just plain annoying. Who knows, maybe he was mad that I abandoned our friendship to hang out with my other friends and do girlie things like put on makeup, create new hair styles, and talk about boys. But our relationship was definitely changing.
In junior high and high school, my brother started to get in trouble. He was a bit of a thrill-seeker, always getting into something "extreme" that often involved crashing, breaking or taking something that didn't belong to him. I remember my parents yelling at him a lot, but I was busy doing my own thing, and it generally did not include violating any laws. I moved into my first apartment when I was 18 and I was so busy trying to be independent and grown up, that I barely noticed when Bill did time in jail. We had long since drifted apart, our best friend status no longer in tact.
I would see my brother during some holiday get-togethers, and other times my parents would fill me in on what was going on with his life, but as adults Bill and I didn't talk very often. It wasn't until he and his wife divorced a few years ago that we reconnected. He moved back to the Twin Cities and in with my dad, and for the first time since we were small, I saw glimpses of the Bill who was my best friend as a kid. He seemed grown up. He seemed responsible. He seemed like he cared about his family and friends. We hung out and talked, we grabbed dinner or a beer, he helped me with a couple of projects around the house, I helped him put an ad on Match.com. I was happy that he was in my life again.
When my dad died, everything changed. We didn't agree about what to do with my dad's dog (formerly Bill's dog). We didn't agree about what we should do with the house my dad left us. We didn't agree about my dad's memorial service. We didn't agree about anything. And there were many times when I was pretty sure if we had been kids, he would have hauled off and started punching me, like he did at my pre-pubescent slumber parties.
Bill stopped being angry for a while when I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer a few weeks after we lost my dad. He visited me in the hospital a couple of times and even checked on me once or twice after chemo. But it didn't last. He was focused on my dad's possessions and what they were worth. I was focused on kicking cancer's ass. Bill stopped speaking to me shortly after I finished my last round of chemo. He even "unfriended" me on Facebook.
Until he sent me an email last week, I hadn't heard from my brother in more than a year. During that time I did a lot of reflecting. I often wondered why, when we reached a proverbial fork in the road as teens, Bill and I went in completely different directions? I wondered about my older brother and sister too, and how four kids who all grew up in the same house, during the same period of time, with the same parents, could be so different?
I have worked through many of my feelings about my relationships with family members. They are who they are, and I am who I am, and that is neither good nor bad. It is what it is. I will love them and care about them, whether or not we are a part of each other's lives. And if any of them ever face a battle with cancer or a life-threatening illness, I will be there for them in a way they were not able to be there for me.
As for my brother Bill, his email did not include an apology for the way he treated me when I was sick. Or even a simple "I love you." Instead, he asked a question about my dad's property. I'm not sure how or if I will respond. I don't care about the material things my dad left us. But I will always love my brother Bill more than he could possibly imagine. He will always hold a special place in my heart.
He will always be my first best friend.
I'm pretty sure Bill and I had a secret language long before we could speak English. And we often mimicked each other. My brother dragged around a raggedy security blanket that was referred to as a "nightie" and sucked his thumb. I did too. I wore a spiky ponytail at the top of my head that I called a "tree." Bill insisted on having one too. A natural athlete, Bill played hockey from the time he could walk. A klutzy girl who fell down regularly, I begged my parents to let me play on his all-boy team despite my balance issues. We followed each other everywhere, exploring every corner of our house, yard and neighborhood together. We made believe that we were sailing on a ship or managing a department store in our basement or attic. We constructed elaborate forts out of furniture and blankets. We created cities in the dirt for our Tonka trucks and Matchbox cars. We had picnics of graham crackers and mini marshmallows in the back yard. We cruised around on anything that rolled--Big Wheels, bikes, go-carts, skateboards. He was my best friend and confidant. We were inseparable.
As we got older, Bill began to torture me by crashing every sleepover I ever had from the time I turned 12. He, and sometimes his friends, would pull practical jokes on me and the girls, or try to scare us. Often he would just barge in my room and start punching me in front of my friends. At that time, it was just plain annoying. Who knows, maybe he was mad that I abandoned our friendship to hang out with my other friends and do girlie things like put on makeup, create new hair styles, and talk about boys. But our relationship was definitely changing.
In junior high and high school, my brother started to get in trouble. He was a bit of a thrill-seeker, always getting into something "extreme" that often involved crashing, breaking or taking something that didn't belong to him. I remember my parents yelling at him a lot, but I was busy doing my own thing, and it generally did not include violating any laws. I moved into my first apartment when I was 18 and I was so busy trying to be independent and grown up, that I barely noticed when Bill did time in jail. We had long since drifted apart, our best friend status no longer in tact.
I would see my brother during some holiday get-togethers, and other times my parents would fill me in on what was going on with his life, but as adults Bill and I didn't talk very often. It wasn't until he and his wife divorced a few years ago that we reconnected. He moved back to the Twin Cities and in with my dad, and for the first time since we were small, I saw glimpses of the Bill who was my best friend as a kid. He seemed grown up. He seemed responsible. He seemed like he cared about his family and friends. We hung out and talked, we grabbed dinner or a beer, he helped me with a couple of projects around the house, I helped him put an ad on Match.com. I was happy that he was in my life again.
When my dad died, everything changed. We didn't agree about what to do with my dad's dog (formerly Bill's dog). We didn't agree about what we should do with the house my dad left us. We didn't agree about my dad's memorial service. We didn't agree about anything. And there were many times when I was pretty sure if we had been kids, he would have hauled off and started punching me, like he did at my pre-pubescent slumber parties.
Bill stopped being angry for a while when I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer a few weeks after we lost my dad. He visited me in the hospital a couple of times and even checked on me once or twice after chemo. But it didn't last. He was focused on my dad's possessions and what they were worth. I was focused on kicking cancer's ass. Bill stopped speaking to me shortly after I finished my last round of chemo. He even "unfriended" me on Facebook.
Until he sent me an email last week, I hadn't heard from my brother in more than a year. During that time I did a lot of reflecting. I often wondered why, when we reached a proverbial fork in the road as teens, Bill and I went in completely different directions? I wondered about my older brother and sister too, and how four kids who all grew up in the same house, during the same period of time, with the same parents, could be so different?
I have worked through many of my feelings about my relationships with family members. They are who they are, and I am who I am, and that is neither good nor bad. It is what it is. I will love them and care about them, whether or not we are a part of each other's lives. And if any of them ever face a battle with cancer or a life-threatening illness, I will be there for them in a way they were not able to be there for me.
As for my brother Bill, his email did not include an apology for the way he treated me when I was sick. Or even a simple "I love you." Instead, he asked a question about my dad's property. I'm not sure how or if I will respond. I don't care about the material things my dad left us. But I will always love my brother Bill more than he could possibly imagine. He will always hold a special place in my heart.
He will always be my first best friend.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Stalker confessions
My name is Chris, and I'm a Facebook Stalker...
Most of my career has been spent in radio, which in my opinion, was the original form of social media. Decades before Mark Zuckerberg and/or his minions coined the term, radio listeners often thought that the voice coming out of the speakers was a friend. Many would call in for a chance to talk to their favorite radio personality, ask a question, share an opinion, participate in a contest. Some deejays even had stalkers. Radio allowed for two-way communication when other forms of media did not.
And then Facebook came along and changed the definition of social media. Yes, it too allowed for two-way communication. But the difference was that imaginary friendships on Facebook were sort of consensual. The connections were real-ish. (Yes, I'm telling you that the friendship you thought you had with your favorite radio announcer was probably not real.)
Not a lot of my friends and family had Facebook accounts at that time I created my page, and it was often the topic of conversation. I would encourage them to get on Facebook because I had heard from long lost classmates. I had connected with relatives that I hadn't seen since my mom's funeral years earlier. While many people I knew were being cautious about putting their personal business out there for the world to see, I couldn't think of a good reason not to do it. Sure, I got some friend requests from people I had no interest in rekindling relationships with, and some I didn't know, but I wasn't too concerned about stalkers. Perhaps it was because I had mastered the privacy settings. Or maybe it was because I thought the whole idea of stalking someone on a networking website was crazy. Who had time for that?
Me, apparently.
Last week I was bored and checking out the news feed when I noticed that one of my "friends" commented on the post of an ex coworker (who is not my Facebook friend). The last time I saw her was when she left the organization to have a baby. I was curious, so I clicked on the photo. It wasn't private. There were a few more shots of a cute baby, and then I clicked on the "albums" link to see if there were more. There weren't. But there was a video that she had been tagged in.
I clicked on the video and became entranced. It was a memorial for a 28 year old who died in a freak kayaking accident. The video was a tribute to the handsome young man, and included scenes of his whitewater adventures, he and his girlfriend cross country skiing, and the two of them teaching their puppy to swim. For almost 10 minutes the video played, and my heart broke at the thought of a life ended much too soon. I felt genuinely sad. I spent the next half hour feeling blue and looking for more information about a man I didn't even know.
Then it hit me. I had become a sort of Facebook Stalker. Not the kind that some of my friends and family feared (someone with an obsession for one particular person). I was more of a passive stalker. Someone who stumbled upon something intriguing, like interesting photos of a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend, and got sucked into the life of a stranger. I'm not sure whether or not the person who posted the video memorial intended for everyone on Facebook to see it. It was beautiful, but it really wasn't any of my business. And an open door is not always an invitation inside.
The video incident was quite an eye-opener for me. I will no longer be spending my free time clicking mindlessly through the pictures of people I don't know. Instead I will be attending Facebook Stalker Anonymous meetings, and hosting webinars for former victims on how to master privacy controls.
Most of my career has been spent in radio, which in my opinion, was the original form of social media. Decades before Mark Zuckerberg and/or his minions coined the term, radio listeners often thought that the voice coming out of the speakers was a friend. Many would call in for a chance to talk to their favorite radio personality, ask a question, share an opinion, participate in a contest. Some deejays even had stalkers. Radio allowed for two-way communication when other forms of media did not.
And then Facebook came along and changed the definition of social media. Yes, it too allowed for two-way communication. But the difference was that imaginary friendships on Facebook were sort of consensual. The connections were real-ish. (Yes, I'm telling you that the friendship you thought you had with your favorite radio announcer was probably not real.)
Not a lot of my friends and family had Facebook accounts at that time I created my page, and it was often the topic of conversation. I would encourage them to get on Facebook because I had heard from long lost classmates. I had connected with relatives that I hadn't seen since my mom's funeral years earlier. While many people I knew were being cautious about putting their personal business out there for the world to see, I couldn't think of a good reason not to do it. Sure, I got some friend requests from people I had no interest in rekindling relationships with, and some I didn't know, but I wasn't too concerned about stalkers. Perhaps it was because I had mastered the privacy settings. Or maybe it was because I thought the whole idea of stalking someone on a networking website was crazy. Who had time for that?
Me, apparently.
Last week I was bored and checking out the news feed when I noticed that one of my "friends" commented on the post of an ex coworker (who is not my Facebook friend). The last time I saw her was when she left the organization to have a baby. I was curious, so I clicked on the photo. It wasn't private. There were a few more shots of a cute baby, and then I clicked on the "albums" link to see if there were more. There weren't. But there was a video that she had been tagged in.
I clicked on the video and became entranced. It was a memorial for a 28 year old who died in a freak kayaking accident. The video was a tribute to the handsome young man, and included scenes of his whitewater adventures, he and his girlfriend cross country skiing, and the two of them teaching their puppy to swim. For almost 10 minutes the video played, and my heart broke at the thought of a life ended much too soon. I felt genuinely sad. I spent the next half hour feeling blue and looking for more information about a man I didn't even know.
Then it hit me. I had become a sort of Facebook Stalker. Not the kind that some of my friends and family feared (someone with an obsession for one particular person). I was more of a passive stalker. Someone who stumbled upon something intriguing, like interesting photos of a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend, and got sucked into the life of a stranger. I'm not sure whether or not the person who posted the video memorial intended for everyone on Facebook to see it. It was beautiful, but it really wasn't any of my business. And an open door is not always an invitation inside.
The video incident was quite an eye-opener for me. I will no longer be spending my free time clicking mindlessly through the pictures of people I don't know. Instead I will be attending Facebook Stalker Anonymous meetings, and hosting webinars for former victims on how to master privacy controls.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Like home
I worked in radio for more than a decade. Nothing high profile, like a morning show host or anything. My job was more behind-the-scenes, and mostly entailed planning and managing events and promotions. My first gig was at Cities 97, a Minneapolis "adult album alternative" radio station, when I was in my twenties. The playlist included a lot of music from local bands, and one of my favorites was The Jayhawks. They had been around since the 80s, but I didn't really discover them until the 90s, when I saw them perform live. I copped their "Tomorrow The Green Grass" CD from our music director--free music was one of the perks of the job--and played it over and over. I quickly fell in love with every song, and got to see the band play live again on several occasions (another job perk).
As time went on, my taste in music evolved, but The Jayhawks remained on my top 10 list. I never forgot the lyrics to "Blue"--my favorite song--or any of the other songs on the album for that matter. And every now and then I would come across the CD and rediscover that familiar rock-country-folk sound I loved all over again.
Sometime in the early 2000s, I transferred all of my CDs to iTunes. Thanks to my long career in radio, I had over a thousand discs. Many of them didn't make the cut, mostly because I got tired of copying all those files. "Tomorrow The Green Grass" did. But something strange happened once my entire music collection was on my computer. When I could no longer hold a CD in my hand, look at the artwork, or read the liner notes--I could no longer remember what I had in my collection. I forgot about many of my favorites, and for around five years, I forgot about The Jayhawks.
That was until 2006, when I was living in Dallas and working as the marketing director for the Body Worlds traveling museum exhibition. I was on my own, and aside from an old friend who moved back to Texas around that time, I really didn't know anyone there. At first, it didn't matter. I was working a lot and spent most of my free time exploring with my dogs, and taking long walks on the Katy trail. After a couple of months, I began to miss my friends and family back home. I was finding it challenging to relate to many of the people that I met in Dallas. I longed to be near people who were down to earth, and not obsessed with cars and clothes and credit cards. As I walked the trail one chilly January morning, listening to my iPod on shuffle, the song "Blue" began to play. The lyrics hit me the way the heat of the sun does after it pops out from under a big cloud... "Where have all my friends gone? They've all disappeared. Turned around maybe one day. You're all that was there..." A warm feeling washed over my entire body, and tears came to my eyes. Hearing my favorite Minnesota band at that moment made me forget that I was a thousand miles from home. The Jayhawks were like home.
Two years later, when my boyfriend Matt and I were getting to know each other, I learned he loved The Jayhawks too. I shared my Texas story with him during one of our phone conversations. On our first official date, he surprised me with the then latest CD from one of The Jayhawks' original band members, Mark Olson. He waited until the end of the date, and as he walked me to my car, stopped at his car to retrieve a neatly wrapped package. I opened it and fought back tears. Again, that warm feeling washed over me... like home. I have teased Matt about how he waited until the end of the evening to give it to me (like a prize for having a better than expected first date), and joked often that I may have fallen in love with him at that moment. Even now, when I am bored or need cheering up, we get in Matt's car and take a tour of his favorite country roads in Wisconsin. I ramble on about the clouds and how big the sky is, and he plays The Jayhawks on the car stereo.
This past Tuesday night, thanks to a good friend who still works in radio, I got to see The Jayhawks perform for the first time in more than a decade. Hearing them live brought back a flood of memories. It's amazing how music can evoke such emotion and make you feel so good. I think for me, The Jayhawks will always be like home.
As time went on, my taste in music evolved, but The Jayhawks remained on my top 10 list. I never forgot the lyrics to "Blue"--my favorite song--or any of the other songs on the album for that matter. And every now and then I would come across the CD and rediscover that familiar rock-country-folk sound I loved all over again.
Sometime in the early 2000s, I transferred all of my CDs to iTunes. Thanks to my long career in radio, I had over a thousand discs. Many of them didn't make the cut, mostly because I got tired of copying all those files. "Tomorrow The Green Grass" did. But something strange happened once my entire music collection was on my computer. When I could no longer hold a CD in my hand, look at the artwork, or read the liner notes--I could no longer remember what I had in my collection. I forgot about many of my favorites, and for around five years, I forgot about The Jayhawks.
That was until 2006, when I was living in Dallas and working as the marketing director for the Body Worlds traveling museum exhibition. I was on my own, and aside from an old friend who moved back to Texas around that time, I really didn't know anyone there. At first, it didn't matter. I was working a lot and spent most of my free time exploring with my dogs, and taking long walks on the Katy trail. After a couple of months, I began to miss my friends and family back home. I was finding it challenging to relate to many of the people that I met in Dallas. I longed to be near people who were down to earth, and not obsessed with cars and clothes and credit cards. As I walked the trail one chilly January morning, listening to my iPod on shuffle, the song "Blue" began to play. The lyrics hit me the way the heat of the sun does after it pops out from under a big cloud... "Where have all my friends gone? They've all disappeared. Turned around maybe one day. You're all that was there..." A warm feeling washed over my entire body, and tears came to my eyes. Hearing my favorite Minnesota band at that moment made me forget that I was a thousand miles from home. The Jayhawks were like home.
Two years later, when my boyfriend Matt and I were getting to know each other, I learned he loved The Jayhawks too. I shared my Texas story with him during one of our phone conversations. On our first official date, he surprised me with the then latest CD from one of The Jayhawks' original band members, Mark Olson. He waited until the end of the date, and as he walked me to my car, stopped at his car to retrieve a neatly wrapped package. I opened it and fought back tears. Again, that warm feeling washed over me... like home. I have teased Matt about how he waited until the end of the evening to give it to me (like a prize for having a better than expected first date), and joked often that I may have fallen in love with him at that moment. Even now, when I am bored or need cheering up, we get in Matt's car and take a tour of his favorite country roads in Wisconsin. I ramble on about the clouds and how big the sky is, and he plays The Jayhawks on the car stereo.
This past Tuesday night, thanks to a good friend who still works in radio, I got to see The Jayhawks perform for the first time in more than a decade. Hearing them live brought back a flood of memories. It's amazing how music can evoke such emotion and make you feel so good. I think for me, The Jayhawks will always be like home.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Julo's Journey
As a child, she loved art, sewing, archery, swimming, and rollerskating--all passions that stayed with her throughout her life. When she graduated from Humbolt High School in the late fifties, she went on to get married and start a family. She had four children--two girls and two boys--and was a stay at home mom who devoted most of her time to volunteering at her kids’ schools, scouts, and church. She also had her own business as a tailor, and made beautiful clothes for several clients, including me. She taught me to sew when I was around 12 years old, after my custom clothing requests became too elaborate for her patience. But she was always willing to repair my sewing mishaps. I think one of her favorite spots on earth was her sewing room--a warm and cozy place with a straw mat on the floor, an old family trunk full of hundreds of pieces of fabric (a trunk that I have in my living room today), and walls covered with photos of her favorite things.
My mom joined the workforce when my brothers and sister and I were in junior high and high school, and found her niche in the health care field. She worked at a few hospitals before she ended up at Abbott Northwestern, where she worked for nearly 15 years. Although she enjoyed her job, she only worked so she could do the things she loved when she wasn't at the hospital. She had a free spirit and was very independent (something she instilled in me as well). She cherished life and appreciated nature, especially being in the woods walking, camping, or painting the beautiful scenery she surrounded herself with. She kept her camping gear in the car year round, so she could take off on a whim, and head for the forest. She also enjoyed just sitting on her deck, feeling the sunshine on her face, and admiring the beautiful gardens she tended to so lovingly.
Her sense of adventure led her many places, not just in travel, but hunting for treasures at antique shops and flea markets, finding the perfect pottery or jewelry at the Renaissance Festival, or discovering just what she was looking for at an art show. Her love of children inspired her fun spirit--she roller skated into her fifties, dressed up in costume every Halloween, and collected antique toys.
Something I really admired about my mom was that she found pleasure in simple things like putting handmade bows on Christmas packages, sending Valentines to her kids, and decorating her house for every season. Her warm smile, laugh, and gentle nature drew people to her. She had a lot of class, an artistic sense of style, and often wore vibrant colors that mirrored her personality--her favorite was purple. She was good to her children and her friends, and was always willing to lend an ear, a shoulder or her time. She always gave so generously of herself. She made the people she was near feel special.
She was diagnosed with Stage 4 ovarian cancer in 1997. For 23 months she fought with a strong will and brave spirit. She never gave up, even in the end when her body could no longer serve her beautiful soul. When the nurses told her she shouldn’t walk, she’d muster up all the strength she could to get up and walk across the room. She hated being cooped up in the house and would ask to be taken out for a meal, even though she barely ate a thing. She was determined to care for herself and although she had always been so generous, she found it difficult to accept help from those who loved her. She didn’t want to burden anyone. She didn’t know she was giving them a gift--especially me. I had the pleasure of being my mom's caretaker for the last months of her life, and was finally able to give back to her what she had given to me from the day I was born.
My mom’s wish was to spend her last moments surrounded by the comforts of home. Thanks to a wonderful team of hospice nurses, health care workers, volunteers, friends, and family, we were able to give her greatest gift of all. She died with dignity and was surrounded by the people, pets, and things she loved. On November 29, 1999, my mom Julo’s journey took her back to the beauty of nature that she respected and loved so much.
I will never, ever forget my mom, and I think about her every day. She was a role model in many ways, and I see so much of her in me, especially as I get older. This past year has been the most difficult of my life, and I often compare my own journey with cancer to hers. She is one of the reasons I was able to make it through, because she was with me every step of the way. She is in my heart always.
Happy Mother's Day.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Cancer time capsule
While I was battling cancer, my friend Lisa suggested that I keep a journal on CaringBridge, so that friends and family could track my progress, and show their support along the way. I am so happy that I did. The last few weeks, I have found myself revisiting my posts there to see what was happening in my life just one year ago. What's strange is that although I have recalled some of the milestones (surgery to remove the tumor, starting chemo, etc.), I had forgotten how I felt during that time. I have very little memory of how horrible the chemotherapy drugs made me feel--the physical and psychological side effects. And how despite the dark times, I always managed to find the silver lining. Reading those entries is a true testament to the human spirit.
Last year at this time, I had finished my second of six chemotherapy sessions and was struggling through a nasty bout with infected hair follicles on my scalp. I was still working at the museum full time, taking the week of chemo off, and returning to my marketing director duties for two weeks until the next treatment. I was so happy it was spring, and that green was bursting all around me.
A springtime memory from the cancer time capsule...
Monday, April 5, 2010
I am still having trouble sleeping, so I thought I would update my journal.
Easter was lovely. As a child Easter meant getting a new spring dress and coat (that matched my sister's) and going to my Grandma and Grandpa Olsen's house to hang out with my family. We would have ham and all of the fixings. If it was a warm, sunny day like yesterday, we would spend time in the back yard. The adults sipped on iced tea while the kids played. My grandparents had a big wooden double glider swing in their yard. To me, that white painted swing represented summer. It sat four adults comfortably, but up to five or six of my siblings and cousins and I could pile on it and pretend we were on a ship, rocking with the waves at sea, or some other adventure.
This Easter was reminiscent of my childhood. Although I didn't get a new dress and coat, I decided to wear a spring dress, just like old times. The hair on my legs had not fallen out, so I even shaved my legs (well, that was not something I did as a child). I threw my dog Jake in the car, picked up a strawberry pie and I was off to my aunt and uncle's house. As I was driving, all I could think about was how great I felt, how great the sun felt, how happy I was to be over the first hump of chemo side effects, how life was truly amazing. I told myself to remember exactly how I felt at that moment--to bank the memory for the times when I wasn't feeling so great.
When I arrived, my cousins and their young children were in the midst of an Easter egg hunt in the back yard. As I walked through the gate, and heard the laughter and excitement of the kids, I was transported back in time to my grandparent's back yard. All that was missing was the swing.
My aunt made an incredible amount of delicious food! She cooked a ham, green bean casserole, croissant rolls the size of my arm--and my favorite cheesy potatoes. She even channeled my grandma a couple of times, in particular when she was carving the ham and making commentary.
The day also included watching five happy wiener dogs run around the yard (my cousins, aunt and uncle and I all have dachshunds), watching my cousin Amie's husband Scott get pooped on by a passing duck, and listening to my cousin Alisha obsess about the plans she had for transforming my aunt's garden into a grove of various fruits and berries.
It may have been just another Easter to the rest of my family, but to me it was really special. I appreciated it more. I'm not sure why it took cancer to make me appreciate the little things so much, but I know for sure, I will continue to take note of these little things every single day. It was a perfect day!
Last year at this time, I had finished my second of six chemotherapy sessions and was struggling through a nasty bout with infected hair follicles on my scalp. I was still working at the museum full time, taking the week of chemo off, and returning to my marketing director duties for two weeks until the next treatment. I was so happy it was spring, and that green was bursting all around me.
A springtime memory from the cancer time capsule...
Monday, April 5, 2010
I am still having trouble sleeping, so I thought I would update my journal.
Easter was lovely. As a child Easter meant getting a new spring dress and coat (that matched my sister's) and going to my Grandma and Grandpa Olsen's house to hang out with my family. We would have ham and all of the fixings. If it was a warm, sunny day like yesterday, we would spend time in the back yard. The adults sipped on iced tea while the kids played. My grandparents had a big wooden double glider swing in their yard. To me, that white painted swing represented summer. It sat four adults comfortably, but up to five or six of my siblings and cousins and I could pile on it and pretend we were on a ship, rocking with the waves at sea, or some other adventure.
This Easter was reminiscent of my childhood. Although I didn't get a new dress and coat, I decided to wear a spring dress, just like old times. The hair on my legs had not fallen out, so I even shaved my legs (well, that was not something I did as a child). I threw my dog Jake in the car, picked up a strawberry pie and I was off to my aunt and uncle's house. As I was driving, all I could think about was how great I felt, how great the sun felt, how happy I was to be over the first hump of chemo side effects, how life was truly amazing. I told myself to remember exactly how I felt at that moment--to bank the memory for the times when I wasn't feeling so great.
When I arrived, my cousins and their young children were in the midst of an Easter egg hunt in the back yard. As I walked through the gate, and heard the laughter and excitement of the kids, I was transported back in time to my grandparent's back yard. All that was missing was the swing.
My aunt made an incredible amount of delicious food! She cooked a ham, green bean casserole, croissant rolls the size of my arm--and my favorite cheesy potatoes. She even channeled my grandma a couple of times, in particular when she was carving the ham and making commentary.
The day also included watching five happy wiener dogs run around the yard (my cousins, aunt and uncle and I all have dachshunds), watching my cousin Amie's husband Scott get pooped on by a passing duck, and listening to my cousin Alisha obsess about the plans she had for transforming my aunt's garden into a grove of various fruits and berries.
It may have been just another Easter to the rest of my family, but to me it was really special. I appreciated it more. I'm not sure why it took cancer to make me appreciate the little things so much, but I know for sure, I will continue to take note of these little things every single day. It was a perfect day!
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Goodbye, Big Pig
On special occasions, we'd all pile in the car and go out for burgers. There wasn't a burger in the Twin Cities that my dad hadn't tried, and he did not discriminate. His favorites included 'Gut Bombs' from White Castle, and cheese-filled Jucy Lucys from Matt's Bar. But his top choice for a good old fashioned hamburger was Porky's Drive-in on University Avenue. It was the 70s, so carhops actually brought platters piled high with burgers, fries, onion rings and shakes, right to the car. I loved how the tray rested on the partially rolled down window, and how my dad would divvy up the food. I would sit in the backseat, munching on the greasy goodness, imaging that Fonzie and the Happy Days gang were going to show up at any moment. I would stare up at the Porky's sign, watching the Big Pig in his top hat and bow tie, as he winked his neon eye at me from high above the parking lot.
As time went on, and my brothers and sister and I grew older, burger nights were history, and our family outings to Porky's became a thing of the past. My dad's visits there continued, but it became less about food, and more about tradition. He would jump in his 1950 Ford pickup truck, cruise up and down University Avenue, and meet up with his hot rod buddies in the parking lot. They would pop open their hoods, compare parts, and 'shoot the shit' for hours and hours. Almost every time I saw my dad, he had a story to share about something that happened at Porky's. It was such a big part of his life that at his funeral a year and a half ago, dozens of his classic car cohorts came to pay their respects, and share Porky's Drive-in stories with my family.
This past weekend, Porky's closed its doors for good after 53 years. I drove by one last time, and the memories came flooding back. I thought of my many childhood trips there, but mostly I thought of what a special place it was for my dad. I recalled the last time I was there, three years ago. It was a warm summer evening and I had tried numerous times to reach my dad on his cell phone. When he didn't answer after several hours, I began to worry. I called my older brother to find out when he had last spoken to him. He asked if I had checked Porky's. I drove up to the restaurant and didn't see my dad at first. But then I heard his laugh and spotted him at a picnic table with four or five of his friends. There were several empty red plastic burger baskets in front of them. As I got out of the car and approached the table, he didn't think it was at all unusual that I was there. He invited me to join him and the gang. I sat down on the bench and his friends immediately started cracking jokes about my dad. I will always remember that night, how happy he looked, underneath the Porky's sign, with the Big Pig in his top hat and bow tie, winking his neon eye.
Goodbye, Big Pig. Thank you for making my dad smile, and for bringing my family many years of joy. You will be missed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)