Letting Go

Several years ago, before we went through several hamsters in rather quick succession and determined that we were just not meant to be hamster owners, my kids and I were at a pet store, looking for our next new hamster. 

The hamster inventory was low that day, and all the store had was one Robo Dwarf hamster. This little guy was in his glass walled cage, running madly back and forth across the front, dashing from one corner to the other, never varying his route. He had done it so continuously that the litter was completely pushed aside, leaving a glassy pathway in the bottom of the cage. 

We stood and watched for about five minutes as he paced frantically, never stopping, not even slowing down. And my kids came to the conclusion that this little hammy obviously had some kind of issues and would probably spend the rest of his little life (a short one, if he came to live with us) pacing, pacing, pacing until he had a heart attack and died. It was not a quality we were looking for in a pet, so we left the store. (And went to the other pet store in town, bought a sweet little ginger-colored hamster that my daughter aptly named "Ginger," and who dropped dead the day after her warranty expired.)

This summer, my son is that pacing hamster.

He is in a state of limbo, no longer a high school senior, not quite a college freshman. He just turned 18 and is legally an adult, but still brings rocks home in his pockets and washes them in the kitchen sink.

He sees the future beyond the confines of his environment, restless to get to it. He has boundless energy, going from one activity to the next: to the gym, to his lifeguard job, to his friend's house. When he's home, he is always on the prowl. 

Tomorrow is the day. 

His clothes are packed. Boxes hold bedding for his dorm room, school supplies, a smattering of kitchen items. Laundry detergent, because I have hopes.

And even though he'll be back to visit often, I know he will never really live here with us again.

I want to mourn the little boy who has grown up, and yet at the same time, rejoice the man he is becoming. 

Tomorrow....

When we drive home without him, I will cry a little and pray a lot, and then take a deep breath.

It's up to him and God now.

10 weeks old.

16 months

Three years

Four years

13 years

Senior picture

I Actually Helped Someone AND I Received A Blog Award

I am over the moon with happiness today!

When I started blogging, I had two purposes: one was to record everything that was happening with my breast cancer diagnosis, so that I would never forget any of the details. But the second purpose was because I hoped to reach someone, somewhere, who was facing the same diagnosis and searching desperately for straightforward information about it.

You can't tell I'm lit on narcotics, can you?

Then last week, I got this email. And it started with the words, "I found your blog and it’s helped put me at ease."

Eureka!

What makes this even better is she also lives in the same town as me.

GET. OUT!

She Googled "free tram flap," which is the reconstruction method that was used on me, and "Dr. Geter," who is the AWESOMEST PLASTIC SURGEON EVER, and she got ME.

I LOVE THIS MAN!

She is having her surgery done prophylactically, because, although she does not have cancer, she has a strong family history of it, plus she also has fibrocystic disease. Her surgery is scheduled for next week.

And today, she and I and her daughter met for lunch.

And they asked me lots of questions, which I answered as honestly and completely as I could.

I showed them pictures of my boobies at the different stages of reconstruction (something which I have spared my blog readers). (I offered to let her see them if she wanted, but she said the pictures were sufficient. The offer still holds if she changes her mind, because, while a picture says a thousand words, a personal viewing is like War and Peace.)*

If I drop dead tomorrow, I will die happy.

My little blog helped someone. It really helped someone.

And now that I am on the subject of boobies, I think it's time to reveal that I have received a coveted Blog Award. Unlike most blogging awards, this one has very, very simple rules:

          1. Be brazen enough to display it on your blog.

          2. Nominate another blogger.

So, without further ado, I am proudly displaying my new award.

Now for my nomination for a Golden Sideboob (drum roll, please): Synnove Robinson of Don't Chew On The Dinner Table. Accept it, Synnove, if you dare.

*When I told my husband that we were going to meet, he said, "Let me get this straight. You're going to show your boobs to someone you met on the internet?" Uh, yep.

Thankful For A New Experience, 10 Different Ways

The first weekend in August finds over 60,000 Vietnamese Catholics descending upon the little town (pop. 15,000) of Carthage, Missouri, about fifteen miles east of where I live. They come for a festival and pilgrimage called Marian Days, held on the grounds of the Congregation of the Mother Co-Redemptrix, its U.S. Headquarters, which also includes a monastery. Attendees come from every state in United States, plus Canada, and set up tents on the grounds of the CMC, in campgrounds, and even in yards of area homes. Concession stands serving traditional Vietnamese food are set up, and anyone is welcome to attend.

Ordinarily, the temperatures are in the upper 90s for us this time of year, but some weird weather system has been sending us rain, rain and more rain, along with slightly cooler temperatures (although yesterday, with the temperature 75 degrees and the humidity 91%, it was hard to feel a whole heckuvalot more comfortable). Because it's always so stinkin' hot, and I'm not much one for crowds in perfect weather conditions, AND because we didn't know that much about Marian Days, we have never ventured over to visit the festival.  But this year, the 35th anniversary of Marian Days, my husband and I decided to go check it out and give the food a try.

This is really stepping outside of my picky eater box.

AND IT WAS FUN! So, for this week's 10 Things of Thankful, I present why I'm thankful I finally attended my first Marian Days festival:

1. I'm thankful my husband took a few days off work this week, which gave us the perfect excuse to go during the day and look around.

2. I'm thankful there are people who are okay with camping, but that I'm not one of them.

3. I'm thankful for English translations.

This doesn't look too bad. I might have
eaten it, if I didn't know it was goat.

4. I'm thankful to get to see such joy on the faces of the sisters working in the souvenir booths.

5. I'm thankful that pork balls, contrary to what they may sound like, were tasty, although they could have used a little more seasoning.

Skewered Pork Balls or Nem Nuong

6. I'm thankful the Knights of Columbus had a food stand with fried crap for the white folks who visit the festival and aren't brave enough to try something new and different, UNLIKE ME.

7. I'm thankful I didn't eat any of this, which look way too much like a jar of eyeballs immersed in tomato sauce.

8. I'm thankful for sensible rules.

9. I'm thankful for nuns who play with boxing nun puppets.

10. I'm thankful for pho, which is yummydelicious as long as you don't over-analyze it.

Keeping an eye out for beaks and claws
in my bowl of pho ga.

(Our local paper interviewed a man whose wife had eaten a bowl of soup at last year's festival that had an entire pig's ear in it. According to this guy, it would have been nice if they had shaved it first....)

And now a few more pictures from our visit (which I have been forced asked nicely to add included a second day visit with our daughter along).

Marketplace offerings.

More marketplace offerings.

Jackfruit, which is the size of a smallish watermelon,
and, if you can get past the pungent odor, is
quite delicious.

Native fruits for sale.

Almost Heaven....

When I was in junior high, I was truly, madly in love with John Denver and his music (don't judge me). I had all of his albums and played them over and over and over. I knew everything about him, including that he was missing two toes from a mowing accident (did YOU know that?).

I lurrrrved him.

When it was announced that he was coming to our city for a concert on May 1, 1975,  I HAD. TO. GO.

Enter my mom's friend, Betty. She and my mom had been close friends since I was maybe 3 when Betty and her family lived across the street from us. Betty was a John Denver fan and all around good sport, and she offered to accompany me, along with her daughter Teresa, to the concert. SOMEBODY PINCH ME!

I treated that ticket as if it were made of glass. I was terrified that someone would break into the house and steal it, so I kept it in a tiny little drawer in a shelf in the dining room and checked on it daily (I'm happy to report it never budged).

When I thought I could not possibly wait any longer, the concert date finally arrived. Betty and Teresa and I saw his tour bus in the parking lot when we arrived at the arena. Once inside, I bought a t-shirt and a program. My heart beat like a rabbit's, and I was nearly bursting with excitement.

He didn't pick me out of the crowd and whisk me away to be with him forever (dammit), but other than that, the concert was everything I could have hoped for.

It was my first concert, and the best night of my (14 year old) life.

And my second concert, a year and a half later?

Kiss.

But that's a story for another day.


Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop writing prompt #2: the first concert you ever attended

Twenty Years Starting...Now!

When a friend in Los Angeles handed her phone over to a guy she worked with in June of 1992 and told him to talk to me for awhile, telling him we had a lot in common because we were both from Missouri, it was the beginning of a beautiful romance.

Santa Monica, the weekend we met.

That phone conversation went on for an hour and a half, and during that time, we found out that, not only were we both from Missouri, our hometowns were only an hour apart, which eventually led to nine months of dating long distance before we got engaged and set a wedding date of August 7. (Note: for the record, we wanted to get married in September or October, but our parents were TOO BUSY then, so we had to go with August, the hottest, most humid time of the year in Missouri.)

Engagement picture.

Our plan was for me to stay in Nashville until the end of May, then I would send everything I owned to Los Angeles in a moving truck, go spend two weeks at my parents' house, tying up loose ends with the wedding, and then drive on out to California. We would then set up housekeeping while maintaining separate bedrooms (shut up, it's my story) until a week before the wedding, when I would fly back to Missouri. My soon-to-be husband would follow me out a few days later, not wanting to take too much time off work before the wedding, so he could take off afterwards for the honeymoon. 

Just one wee little problem.

Missouri had a three-day waiting period for a marriage license. Soon-to-be husband would not be arriving until the day before the wedding.

Fortunately (and thank goodness for small towns), it was possible to have a judge waive the three-day wait. And my dad was friends with a judge. Disaster averted.

Fast forward to August 6. Everything was in place for the wedding. My soon-to-be husband was flying from LAX to Kansas City and would be arriving in the early afternoon, at which time he would rent a car and drive the two and a half hours south to my hometown. This would get him there in time for us to go to the Recorder of Deeds and get the license before the office closed at 4:30 and then head to the wedding rehearsal.

Next little problem.

The Great Flood of 1993.

Missouri River at Kansas City

Heavy rains that began in the fall of 1992 led to record flooding the summer of 1993. FEMA had been dispatched to the area, as had other relief workers. And those relief workers had rented cars. Many, many cars. And it left very, very few rental cars available for anyone else to use, as in, apparently, only one.

When my soon-to-be husband arrived at the rental car office, the agent told him that he realized he had a reservation, but there was a little problem. Seems the family that had rented the car that was to be his wanted to keep it a little longer, even though the agent told them it was not possible, as the car was already promised to someone else.

The husband told his wife they would have to give up the car.

The wife would not give in and refused to get out of the car.

My soon-to-be husband was flipping out. He had a small window of opportunity in which to pick up the car and drive to my hometown before the Recorder of Deeds closed for the day. 

The husband begged with his wife.

She sat firmly in the car.

Finally, my soon-to-be husband leaned in, told her he was getting married the next day and needed the car to get there, and she reluctantly got out.

Land-speed records were broken as my soon-to-be husband turned a two and a half hour drive into one that lasted about an hour and fifteen minutes, but he made it in the nick of time, the license was issued, and we were one step closer to being married.

All went smoothly after that point. Rehearsal, fine. Rehearsal dinner, fine, except for the seemingly endless amount of time that my cousin, on one side of me, turned to talk to the person next to her and my soon-to-be husband, on the other side of me, turned to talk to the person on the other side of him, and I was left with no one to talk to and nothing to do but pick at my food.

Mother Nature was kind to us that week, because instead of horrifically high humidity and hot temperatures, it was delightfully, unseasonably cool. I still didn't want to risk sweating in my wedding dress, so I turned the air conditioning down in the church just about as low as it would go. You could have hung meat in the sanctuary.

Our ceremony was scheduled for 10:30 in the morning, and the food at the reception would be breakfast food, plus cake, of course. There would be ham biscuits, turkey sausage, little muffins and sweet rolls, and breakfast casserole. Orange juice and apple juice, but no punch. (I went 'round and 'round with my mom on that one, because I hate punch and refused to have it at my wedding. When I said there wouldn't be coffee if we had to have punch, she backed down.)


We took our pictures before the wedding (I am not superstitious and thought it was silly to make everyone wait for the reception to begin while we took them). Everything was progressing nicely. The string quartet was playing. The church was filling with friends and family.

I was waiting in the narthex when my dad came up to me and said, "Problem. The caterer isn't here, but we're not telling your mom."

Uh, what?

Seems the caterer, who had come recommended by my MIL and with whom my mother and I had met and discussed the event extensively, was having car problems.  We kept it from my mother until we heard back from the caterer that she was finally on her way. 

Just as I was ready to walk down the aisle, the caterer wheeled into the parking lot. 

Everything else, I am happy to report, went without a hitch. My childhood minister married us. The ceremony was short and to the point and had a lovely responsive reading in it. The reception was relaxed and festive, and we were able to visit with everyone who came. (My parents fixed us plates of food, but we didn't take more than a bite or two, because we were so busy with our guests.)

Who would have thought that one chance phone conversation would lead to this? 

Happy 20th anniversary, Skippy. I love you and wouldn't want to take this ride with anyone but you.

SWIFT-ly Posting This Week's Ten Things Of Thankful

I may win the prize for being the last one to enter my post for Ten Things of Thankful this week! What a whirlwind weekend, and plenty of things for which to be thankful:

1. I'm thankful I was able to get our family tickets to see the Taylor Swift Red Tour in Kansas City. Pre-sale tickets went on sale on November 13 for the August 3 show. Yes, you heard me right. November 13. Aaaaaand, to be able to buy the tickets on the pre-sale date, I had to become a member of Taylor Nation (shut up). But I did it, and nine months later (I could have grown a baby in that amount a time [okay, technically I could NOT have, but in theory, I could have]), we finally got to enjoy the show.

In the car, on our way to KC.

2. I'm thankful my daughter's dance injury, which had her on crutches all week, was healed enough that she was able to walk to the Sprint Center for the concert. Because I, in a fit of wisdom, decided we should stay downtown, within walking distance of the venue, rather than stay out in the suburbs and drive in and have to deal with parking. I found a great rate, but the catch was that the room had to be pre-paid with no cancellations allowed. Then my daughter fell coming out of a leap in dance class, landing on the outside of her foot, causing it to swell and bruise, and I thought we might have to take turns carrying her piggy-back to the arena. A week of stumping around on crutches and icing her foot did the trick, and all was good.

3. I am thankful for a beautiful city view.

The view from the Marriott.

4. I am thankful the e-tickets we printed worked just fine, because I've gotta say, I was a little apprehensive that they would. 

5. I had no idea that attendees often dress up in costumes at Taylor Swift concerts until we were on the way to the Sprint Center. Lots of red clothes and red lipstick. Signs, some of which lit up with Christmas lights and battery packs. Flowered headbands. Cowboy boots and skirts. Hand decorated t-shirts with such things as Taylor's name, song lyrics, 13, and any number of other things written on them. I am so, so, SO thankful that my daughter wouldn't have done something like that on a bet.

6. I am thankful that Ed Sheeran was the opening act. He was A.MAZ.ING. 

7. I am thankful that the officials at the Sprint Center realized with a female to male ratio of about 1000:1, the number of bathrooms was not going to be sufficient, and they converted most of the men's restrooms to women's restrooms. 

A little disconcerting to walk into the women's
restroom and be faced with these....

8. I am thankful that, even though the Red Tour is sponsored by Diet Coke, you could not buy one in the entire venue. It was a Pepsi only place, and nothing makes me happier. (You know this is actually a BIG FAT LIE and I was thirsty all evening for lack of Diet Coke.)

9. I am thankful that no one sitting near us insisted on loudly singing along with Taylor. 

10. I am thankful for the opportunity to see such a magnificent show. Concerts have come a long, long way since I first started attending them in high school. Taylor Swift, you put on one heckuva show!

Nothing short of spectacular.

Stuck In The Middle With You

It was over 20 years ago, and I was in a long distance relationship, as in over 2,000 miles of distance. The guy I was seeing was a co-worker of a friend, and we were becoming pretty serious. I had flown out to see him several times, and it was now his turn to come visit me.

His plane was coming in around 9:00 that night, and the closer it got to that time, the more excited I got. I was bouncing around my house like a cricket, cleaning, straightening, chattering on the phone with various friends. As I was talking (happened to be with my hairdresser), I glanced at my watch. It was 8:45. SHEEEEEEEE-IT! How did I lose track of time like that? I slammed down the phone, grabbed my keys and ran out the door. 

My house was about a 15 minute drive from the airport (not including parking), but I made it in probably 12. Fortunately, the late flight meant the parking lot wasn't very full, and I was able to secure a spot and dash inside the airport fairly easily.

Hoping against hope that the plane had somehow been delayed (whose plane ever arrives at the gate at the exact moment it's supposed to? Mine never has EVEN ONCE.), I sped towards the arrival gate, only to find that my boyfriend had already deplaned AND collected his luggage and was now leaning against the wall, arms folded, luggage on the floor next to him, waiting and wondering if this girl he was seeing had flaked and left him stranded in a strange city.

I began babbling apologies about losing track of time, and fortunately he bought my story already knew me well enough to know that it was exactly something I would do, and that was that. We had a lovely weekend, and I sadly sent him back across the country when it was over.

We kept our long distance relationship going, and soon it was Christmas. We made plans for my boyfriend to fly in, then the two of us were going to drive the nearly 500 miles to our hometowns (coincidentally, they were only an hour apart) and meet each other's families. He was booked on the red-eye and would get in at 7:00 a.m.

The day before he was to arrive was unseasonably warm, and I took advantage of the weather to have my car washed before our trip. I drove a 1989 Toyota Corolla SR-5. I was packed and ready for our drive, the car had been serviced (and washed) and my alarm was set for 5:30 a.m., so I would have plenty of time to get up, get myself beautiful, and be at the airport by the time his plane arrived at the gate.

This isn't mine, but it looked EXACTLY like this.

As planned, I was up early the next morning and excitedly got ready. I was out the door at 6:30, allowing myself PLEN-TY of time to get to the airport, park, and be at the gate BEFORE the plane arrived.

B-r-r-r-r-r! Overnight, a cold front had come through, and the lovely, unseasonably warm temperatures from the day before had been replaced by bone-chilling, below-freezing cold.

I unlocked the car door, pulled on the handle, and . . . nothing happened. The door was frozen shut. (Remember that car wash the day before? Turns out that was a bad move.)

I tried the passenger door. Same thing.

Trying to keep myself from hyperventilating, I yanked and yanked on the doors, but neither would budge.

The hands on my watch were creeping closer and closer to 7:00.

In a fit of desperation, I tried the trunk, and it opened. 

There was a latch inside the trunk, behind the back seats, that allowed the seats to fold down. I thought if I could push them down, I could then climb into the trunk and come out on the inside of the car and open the doors from the inside, realizing it would be easier to PUSH a frozen door open than to PULL it.

I pushed the seats down and climbed in. Now, this was a sporty car, and the trunk was a bit of an afterthought. It wasn't much more than a foot from the edge of the trunk to the back window, and about the same depth, and while I'm not fat, I AM tall and leggy.

I climbed in. Wiggled and worked until I was lying on my back, my knees up, and began squirming my way inside the trunk, looking much like a cockroach on its back. The carpeted interior of the trunk grabbed my clothing, and in spite of the freezing temperatures, I was sweating buckets.

Success! I finally made it through to the backseat, squeezed between the bucket seats, over the gearshift, and into the driver's seat. I tried the handle and pushed with my shoulder. Still nothing. I climbed over the gearshift again and tried the passenger door. Nothing.

Now I am stuck inside a frozen car, the only way out being through the trunk. I could go ahead and drive it to the airport, but after I got there, then what? How would my boyfriend get in? There was no way he would be able to crawl in through the trunk. 

In a last-ditch effort, I leaned back over the gearshift, pulled out on the door handle, gave the passenger door a hard kick. With a crackle of ice, the door flew open, taking with it the gasket from around the door. . . .

I now had a door that opened, but would not close.

And it was nearly 7:00.

By this time, I was shivering and sobbing. My choices were to try to get the gasket back on or drive a 5-speed car across town to the the airport while leaning across the passenger seat and holding the door closed. I decided to go with Plan A first, and climbed back over the gearshift again and tried to work the gasket back onto the door frame. It was hard and stiff, still coated in ice crystals, and my fingers were turning black and greasy. I continued to cry and sweat and shiver, and eventually, I got the gasket back on.

I climbed over the gearshift again, started the car, and took off for the airport.

At nearly 7:30, I parked the car, climbed over the gearshift one last time, and ran into the airport, hands filthy, face streaked with tears.

Leaning against a wall, arms folded, luggage on the floor next to him, waiting and wondering, was my boyfriend. The moment our eyes met, I burst into tears, and started blubbering.

"I was trying (sob sob) to be on time (sob) but the doors were stuck (sob sob) and I had to crawl in the trunk (sob sob) and the thingy came off the door (sob sob) and I couldn't get to you (WAAAHHHHHH!)"

And he put his arms around me and held me, and laughed a little, and told me it was okay. That he knew I tried. That something like this could only happen to me.

And somehow, in spite of leaving him stranded not once, but twice, at the airport,  I didn't scare him off.

He married me 8 months later.

Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop prompt #3: A time somebody got stuck