I AM a BUTTERFLY

"Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, she became a butterfly"

When I was 20 years old I spent the summer in Mexico teaching children in the most remote villages of the Yucatan peninsula. Early on I was trying to cross the street in the capitol city, Merida, while the streets were flooded. I couldn't see the road because of the gross water so I stepped off a curb and right into a broken metal grate. My foot was cut open and broken in 4 places. I spent the rest of that summer in a cast, crutching through the villages, living in dirt floored huts and feeling really good about my ability to stick it out! But a year later I started getting really sick to my stomach and after a year of illness and a trip to the Mayo Clinic, no one knowing what was wrong with me. I finally saw a doctor in Holland who just so happened to have done mission work in the same part of Mexico as I had. He immediately diagnosed me with a parasite near my stomach, that by then had grown to the size of a football. He gave me medication to kill it and flush it out of my system and the treatment worked!  The doctor said the parasite had entered my body through the open wound on my broken foot that got stuck the sewer water of the flood. I finished college and life went on, until I was about 36 years old. 

I started getting sick again. Throwing up all the time, passing out, dizzy, sweaty. For a year things got worse and worse until I was so sick that some days I was unable to even get out of bed and I would vomit multiple times a day. Finally, after seeing many doctors and having a million tests I was referred to a gastro specialist at U of M and was diagnosed with gastroparesis. It literally means "your stomach is paralyzed". My stomach didn't move. Wouldn't digest my food properly. Things would get stuck in my stomach and ferment and then make me vomit. But my body reacted like I was starving and started turning everything I didn't throw up into fat. So I was this weird woman who threw up all the time but mysteriously gained weight. The doctor thought that somehow that parasite had done permanent damage to my stomach and my symptoms would only get worse until I would end up getting a feeding tube inserted in my intestines bypassing the stomach to stay alive or maybe not survive. 

Then I got cancer the first time. Stage 3 malignant melanoma. That's when everything fell apart. I was too sick to keep my job of 14 years as the Executive Director of Safe Haven Ministries. I had just raised two million dollars and oversaw the building of a new shelter for abused women and children that quadrupled our capacity. I had taken a small, new nonprofit from an organization of one live-in staff person (me!) and a $30,000 annual budget to managing a staff of 20 professional therapists and social workers, raising $700,000 annually, with three locations, serving more than 1,000 battered women. My proudest moments were growing that organization and serving those women and especially protecting those children. I was consulting with the Department of Justice on the Violence Against Women Act. I was being flown in to D.C. to review federal grants. I was providing expert testimony in courtrooms around Michigan. I worked like 12 hours a day and gave my whole life to that organization. 

So I had to give up my job. The most important thing to me was that Safe Haven thrived and kept growing and protecting women and I couldn't be sure I could make that happen in my condition. I tried to go to work in a much smaller non-profit. Ran an HIV/AIDS prevention non-profit called The Red Project for 2 years. We handed out clean needles to heroin addicts on S. Division, I delivered condoms to all the gay bars and bath houses in GR. I got licensed to do HIV testing and counseling. But soon I was too sick to even make that work. I became too sick to work at all. Eventually I ran through all my savings and my retirement and I lost my house that I had owned for 16 years, my car was repossessed, I had to file for bankruptcy because of medical bills and I was sleeping at a friends house with all of my belongings in storage. That was four years ago. 

I had several more surgeries for cancer, finally got approved for disability, started to get medical insurance, after having to hire a lawyer,  and started to try to put my life back together a little bit. But I was so sick all the time, it was nearly impossible to stay above water. 

Then, last year January, I read this article about a study that had just been published about gastroparesis. Researchers thought it might be caused by an overproduction of a hormone called grelin. Grelin is only produced in the lower right section of the stomach. So they hypothesized that removing the part of the stomach that produces the hormone might take away the disorder. I brought the article to the attention of my doctor at U of M and we both agreed it was a last ditch effort to get my life back. So on July 21, 2015, one year ago, I had 85% of my stomach removed at Blodgett hospital. I knew immediately when I woke up in the recovery room it had worked. My constant state of tremendous nausea was gone.  It was a true miracle. In the last year I have thrown up one time and it was only because I had worked too hard at the gym and puked all over the treadmill!

So in the last 12 months I've been working super super hard to get my health back. I've lost over 100 pounds and I'm still diligently working on more. There has been an article written about me in a medical journal and I'm feeling stronger all the time. 

A few months after surgery I was talking to a friend who was throwing her mother a 90th birthday party. Her mom is this vibrant, amazing woman who has, and still is, doing amazing work to help people everyday. So I did the math. I was 46 years old. I could have another 46 years of life on this earth. And I realized, a year ago when I thought I had made every contribution I thought I was going to make and I was facing this horrid disease I was really just living the end of my first act of life. I feel like I got the gift of a 2nd act now! And I plan to take full advantage of that. 

So last Fall I gathered all my closest friends and family and had a party. I thanked them all for the amazing things they did to support me through my illness and shared the quote about the butterfly I mentioned at the top of this note. As I lit a candle, I thanked each of them for being a light in my darkness and promised them to give everything I've got to this gift of a 2nd Act. And that's what I'm trying to do right now! 

My Scalp Is A Worrywart

A couple weeks ago I was prepping for my last post op appointment with my oncologist. My list of questions were: 1.My largest wound opened up again. Is it infected?  2.I was invited to be in a melanoma study in Pennsylvania. Does she have any reservations about me participating?  3.The third surgery was much less invasive than the first two. How do we know we got all the cancer?


Thankfully she didn't think things looked infected again but said my scars were not going to be pretty. That was obvious. I'm just glad the majority of them are on my back. I only have to see them when I choose to. The biopsy they did on my face was the easiest to heal and the least noticeable. That was a gift.


When I told her about the research study she was excited for me to get involved. She had just read about it and didn't think there were any negative aspects to consider. How could freeze-dried broccoli sprout powder hurt?


Then on to question number three. Because my back was such a mess after the first two surgeries, my dermatologist just scraped off some tissue around the site of the latest biopsy that had come back showing cancer cells. He didn't think my back could handle anything more aggressive. So my oncologist went to the computer to see if I had already had a specific blood test. I had not so she said, "For peace of mind, let's run an LDH and a few other levels. Normal results will assure us that the cancer has not spread to any other organ." So off to the lab I went. The phlebotomist got me on the first poke!! She told me to expect the results in three to five days. The next day I got a call. My levels came back too high.


She decided she wants to wait four weeks and rerun the test. So now I wait for the 23rd when I can go back to the lab. I have tried very hard not to worry. My mantra has been not to worry until I know I have something to worry about. But tell that to my hair! It has been falling out in clumps. I went for a haircut yesterday and my stylist asked what was up. She said I have about half as much hair as last month. There is only so far you can push the concern I guess.


I just heard the new Taylor Swift song today. The chorus is "Are we out of the woods yet? Are we in the clear yet?" I have been listening to it on repeat all day. I hope to hear a resounding YES soon. But for now I wait and hope and pray. I thought it was time to ask you all to do the same.

The Long Haul

For the last 4 years I've had to get naked every six months and have the dermatologist exam every crevice of my bodacious bod. Now that there has been a recurrence of melanoma, I'm back to stripping every 3 months for the next 2 years. Only now I'm in a higher risk category so they are going to be more aggressive about doing a biopsy on funky looking spots. 

Well today was the day. Already. And my new, 70 year old, Swedish doctor with the tiny circle glasses decided to do 5 new biopsies. Raising my new grand total over the last 6 years to 31. We'll get the results in a week. 3 cuts on my back, 1 on my left breast and one on my left thigh. 

They say lightning only strikes once but I have had my house get hit and fry all my electronics and a couple years ago my car got hit as I was driving along a country road. It lifted the car off the ground and for some reason I thought I had been shot. But it only left a dent in the hood. 

Today while Dr. Stawiski was cauterizing the wound on my left thigh, I leapt off the table and yipped like a puppy or something. Unbeknownst to him, my calf was touching metal and it shot a current through my body when he touched me with the soldering doohickey. It's not an official lightening strike but COME ON! 

If anything comes back atypical it's another surgery. I know you all keep encouraging me not to be negative but this times I'm asking you to hope for it. I need negative mojo. Benign, benign, benign!! Let the countdown begin. Again. 

This week has been a hum dinger!

Gilda's Club is an organization here in Grand Rapids (and several other cities in the US) founded by Gilda Radner of SNL fame, who lost her battle with cancer in 1989. It's an absolutely gorgeous old farmstead that has been remodeled into a cancer support center for patients, their families and friends. When it first opened I was a excited supporter, now, unfortunately, I'm a client. What a godsend it was to go there for dinner and attend a support group last night. This week has taken a huge toll. 

The roller coaster week of challenging test results and crummy side effects began with my CAT scan findings. It showed 4 nodules on my left lung and a cyst on my kidney. My new Physician's Assistant, Kim, another member of my growing "team", tells me the nodules are of unknown origin so they want to schedule another CAT scan in two months to measure the nodules again. If they have grown, she will order a biopsy to evaluate them for cancer cells. That news made for a challenging Monday. 

On Tuesday I was just trying to hang on. My incisions continued to be painful and fester and it felt like my brain was doing the same. Finally, in the evening, I got some good self talk going and the cheerleader was back!  I decided to just focus on the fact that Wednesday would be a better day and I was going to spend it with my favorite two year old! About two minutes into our snuggle I got a call from another doctor telling me my mammogram results were in and there is a suspicious mass in my left breast. 

Several people encouraged me the day before saying its a good sign that they weren't rushing to do a biopsy of the lung. Wednesday when I shared that they were getting me in right away on Thursday to do a repeat mammogram and ultrasound those same folks said, "oh good, what a relief that they are taking this seriously and are seeing you right away."  And I was trying to feel the same way, but honestly all I could think was f~<£!!

So yesterday I spent the day at the cancer center having my incisions checked, putting the details together so that next week's surgery will go more smoothly than last week's, and finding out whether or not I also have breast cancer. I knew they ordered the initial mammogram because there seems to be a correlation between women who get melanoma multiple times and those same women being diagnosed with breast cancer. Thankfully I left the center knowing that the mass was a 3 cm benign cyst. It doesn't need to be removed. It won't ever develop into cancer. Finally a test result ultimately going my way!!!

Then I got to end the day at Gilda's Club with my sister Christine, who had been on the roller coaster with me all day. Thank you family and friends for all your visits, calls, cards, words of encouragement and thoughts of hope. I'll never forget your support. Every word means the world to me. I love you all so much. 

cancer: watch out, it's unruly

Been dealing with a few rough and unexpected weeks. In the middle of April, my dermatologist referred me to a surgical oncologist when two tumors she biopsied turned out to be malignant melanoma. My oncologist decided she wanted to remove 4 additional spots and have them evaluated. 

So last Monday I had two softball sized excisions and 4 golfball sized sections of skin removed at Butterworth Hospital. Two days later I was told that all 4 additional spots came back as cancerous too. So now I need another surgery where they softball size cut the old golfball scars, taking away any other cancer and a sizable margin of healthy skin. 

Unfortunately, the test results also show that the cancer is aggressive and growing fast and kind of wild so during the next surgery they are "softballing" ( my technical term)  two more sections of skin because they have spots that look awfully similar to, and as unusual as, the other cancerous tumors. That surgery was supposed to be this coming Monday but as of today, all of my current scars are painful and oozing and infected so I've started a round of antibiotics and am taking medication for the pain for 10 days until it's safe for the dr to cut into me again. 

Therefore my next surgery, which will result in 6 additional softball sized scars, will be Thursday, May 29. Three of the excisions will be on my right shoulder/midback area, two will be on my left side and one on my right. They warn me that it will continue to be impossible to use my right arm and very difficult to find a comfortable position. :(

I've also had blood work, EKGs, pathology reports, a mammogram and tomorrow is a full body CT scan- We want to be positive that no cancer had spread into other organs. 

I covet your love and support, your comments, questions and suggestions. The last thing my dr said to me today is that I have many surgeries in my future and a long road ahead.

Sounds pretty painful, lonely and daunting. I'm going to have to do something about that! Calling all cheerleaders!! 

My Excruciating So Called Life

I try to present the highlights of my life to the world. I try to have a "fake it til I make it" attitude. Well, I'm not making it anymore. Don't get me wrong- I have no expectation that life is fair. I have always known there would be challenges and hardships but I'm at the point now that I can't deny feeling like a target. I have to admit that I sometimes feel like maybe my purpose in this world is to make others feel lucky by comparison. 

Let me give you some examples: While I was in high school my mentally ill mom burns down our house. The next year she claims to be attacked by a mystery man, blaming me for not locking the door before leaving for school (we lived in the country and never locked the door). She also tells me he raped her with my curling iron that I had left on. Years later she admits she lied about the whole thing to cover up an affair. At 19 I was sexually assaulted while on a summer mission trip in Mexico. I then get sick for a year and a half from a parasite that entered my body when I broke my foot from twisting it in a flooded sewer grate on the same trip. When I was 24 and visiting my family for Christmas, my dad dies instantly of a heart attack at 45. The core of my world, the rock of our family is gone. 9 months later I loose my virginity by what I now understand was a rape by my boyfriend. 9 months after that I lose a baby at 4 months pregnant after a traumatic breakup with that boyfriend just weeks before we were planning to elope on my birthday. 

 I have tried to relieve years of chronic back pain through injections in my spine, physical therapy, hypnosis, medications with awful side affects, meditation, therapy, shooting electrical charges through my back, supplements, patches, ice bags and heating pads with NO success. On Valentines Day in 2002 my mom dies instantly of a broken neck in a car crash so horrific we were told we could not see the body because it would be too traumatic. At 35 I bleed for 9 months straight resulting in a radical hysterectomy (removing uterus, ovaries, cervix and a growth the size of a football) with a 12 inch vertical scar on my belly as a daily reminder of all I have lost. 

I start throwing up and passing out on occasion, gradually ramping up to flare ups coming almost weekly. While seeing doctors to try to figure out why this is happening I get diagnosed with cancer. While recovering physically and emotionally from surgery to remove the cancer and dealing with my other medical problems, I asked for a leave of absence from a job - that for 14 years was the only thing that grounded me, made me feel useful, gave me purpose and helped me understand how I could use what I had learned through my own tragedies to help others- I was unable to then keep my job. I continue to get sicker and sicker, unable to work, and eventually have my car repossessed, my house unfairly foreclosed (I'm approved for a settlement of a whopping $800 for unfair practices by my mortgage company) and filing for bankruptcy. 

For the last year and a half I have stayed with a few friends, slept on my sister's floor and sort of lived out of bags and boxes. I have been denied almost every type of assistance, most often with the explanation that if I had children I would qualify for help, definitely rubbing salt into a very sensitive wound. I applied for disability, was rejected and I'm now fighting that decision using an attorney who I will owe $6,000 if the appeal is approved. Some amazing people have tried to care for me in very generous ways. One friend offered to pay for health insurance while I wait for my disability hearing (an estimated 18 months). The plan with my new doctor was that as soon as I had gotten through the six month waiting period before insurance would cover preexisting conditions (November), I would go to the Mayo Clinic for help. I found out a few days ago that the Mayo Clinic just denied my doctor's request to refer me. They reviewed my medical file and said "they have nothing new or different to offer". I had no idea they could even do that. I feel crushed. How am I supposed to keep picking myself up? 

I'm not brave anymore. A few days ago, after eyeballing a bottle of sleeping pills and muscle relaxers for hours, I called a suicide hotline. I was feeling overwhelmingly hopeless and knew I needed to see a counselor (my new insurance has no mental health coverage). When I started to talk about how I was feeling, the woman simply replied "Oh sweetie, you don't want to do that. How about we set you up with an appointment." When I started to speak she interrupted me and said, "I'm sorry, I'm going to need to take this call." I paused and then hesitantly said ok and she hung up. So many people and places I have turned to for help at critical moments have failed me. I try to rebound, absorb, fight the good fight but the blows now feel bigger than the beauty of life. 

Do you know how excruciatingly hard II is to ask for help? A couple months ago I was staying with my sister in Howard City. After dealing with three days of nausea, throwing up and dry heaving, I started to have chest pain. Then my left arm went numb. When I got to the emergency room my blood pressure was 221/112. I was at the lethal stroke and heart attack level. They immediately arranged for me to be transferred by ambulance to the Heart Center in Grand Rapids. After hours of meds and tests they told me I was ok to leave and they weren't sure why my blood pressure went so high but to follow up with my doctor. I'm now on three blood pressure medications. 

I have bills for more than $3,000 because the only insurance I qualified for in the whole state comes with a $7,000 annual deductible. I can't even afford the copay for the 3 prescriptions. I need help. I have a friend who is managing a life threatening illness whose blog is inspiring, eloquent and hopeful. I wish I could do that. I just can't.

Home Is Where Your Stuff Is

When I was 15 years old my home was taken away by my sick mother. Nine months ago, 26 years later, my home was taken away from me by my own sickness. My mom's mental illness led her to burn our house down all those years ago. My still undiagnosed illness led to foreclosure, bankruptcy, car repossession and essentially homelessness. Homelessness, not in the traditional sense, but I can't think of a better word to describe what it feels like to load all your belongings into a moving truck and have no where but a storage shed to move them- everything I owned, except for a few things I moved into a basement room in a friend's house. Don't get me wrong, it was a VERY nice room, but I was there at the mercy of a then friend's generosity. Generosity that would be taken back a few months later.

I don't write this, or any other essay to elicit pity. I do it for healing, for understanding and to maybe comfort someone else who might read this and relate to my experience. Sometimes I feel like I have had experiences that no one else I know can understand. For a long time, I was the only person in my broad circle of friends who had ever lost a parent. For awhile I was the only person who had experienced a house fire. For a time, I was the only person I knew who was alive and had been diagnosed with malignant melanoma like me. I ran a shelter for abused women and their children for 14 years partly because I could relate to women who had been raped by someone they loved. If there is one thing that really rings true for me is that there is safety in numbers. I have often sought out people who have had a similar experience just to offer comfort on a topic I can really relate to.

Someday I hope to write about wonderful memories, of which I have many. Tales of my times in Singapore, Israel, Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador, Switzerland, Haiti, the Bahamas . . . I want to share what I have learned from getting out of my home, my comfort zone, and exposing myself to different cultures and foods and religions. I want to talk about amazing moments with my family and friends and what I have learned from them. But right now is the time to write about the pain and the lessons that come from it. Please bear with me for a moment or two or ten.

A few months ago my uncle's house burned down. The home of his family- his wife and daughter and son- was gone. Electrical fire. Immediately I felt I needed to be there, to bear witness to their loss, to offer my support. I drove to LaPorte, I walked through their shell of a house and cried with them, saw their shocked faces, held them, breathed in the soot and smoke, cooked for them and then drove back to my basement room. I "cocooned myself" for days, not able to leave my room. I think I was grieving their loss and my loss of home and it paralyzed me for awhile.

Then, while they were planning a complete rebuild, buying new clothes, picking out new appliances and preparing for the long wait to return to their home, I was asked to leave my room. My friend decided she was not up for having a roommate. The day it happened I had thrown up so hard that I passed out in the bathroom and hit my head on the toilet. I drove myself to the Med Center because I needed IV medication to get the three days of vomiting to stop and when I got home she wanted to talk. I said I couldn't talk because I felt loopy from the medication and needed to go lie down. A few minutes later my cell phone pinged and it was a text from her asking to make a plan for me to leave. She was uncomfortable waiting any longer to have that conversation about me leaving a month later. I was so shocked and hurt and angry about her perceived insensitivity that all I could write back was that I would be gone the next day.

The next morning I packed what I could fit into my car, stopping only to throw up- in the bathroom, in the garage and in the yard. I drove to my sister's apartment and set up a pallet on the living room floor where I would stay for nearly two months. Thank God for her and her willingness to take me in, walk around me, leave me alone sometimes and give me grace and space to lick my latest wounds.

I'm now living with another friend. One that gives me no pause to trust, to love and to let in my heart. I'm grateful for that. We are hoping and planning to move into an apartment together as soon as her house sells. Only then, I think, will I feel like I really live in what I could call a home. A little safe space that is carved out of this big world for me . . . and my stuff.

I LOVE MEN!

I love men. Some people have assumed or suspected that I don't. But I'm here to tell you that I do. Once I hit 30 then 35 then 40 and still no marriage there were whispers about whether or not I'm a lesbian. After I went to work at a battered women's shelter, some folks suspected I would just write off men because they were all violent pigs. But it's not true. Nothing makes me happier than to glance at a really awesome tush (I'm surprised I don't watch football). And if a man I'm attracted to gets a fresh haircut, I feel like I'm in heaven just looking at the back of his neck. If you give me smart, funny, sensitive, tall, and he laughs at my stories, well then I'm down for the count. I have met that combo only one time in my life and it was a crazy and fun but ultimately heartbreaking ride.

After years of flirting, hanging out, apple picking, endless midnight calls and slow dancing on a bridge with a full moon while a big band was playing in the distance, I was still weak in the knees everytime I saw him. Soon after I met him I told one of my closest friends that I was honestly afraid of what I might do if I found him alone in the copy room. I told her I could not be trusted. I might not be able to stop myself from kissing him at any moment!  He's the one man who, when I first met him, I turned to my friend and said, "I hope I marry him someday."

My junior year in college we both worked in the same office- Student  Volunteer Services. We matched Calvin students with volunteer opportunities in the community. The year started with a staff retreat at a campground on Lake Michigan and I remember just staring at him through the smoke of the bonfire in pure lust mode!

  One problem right off the bat was that I was dating someone else. "Dave" was one of the sweetest, most funny guys I had ever met and we had a great time together but the relationship lacked the fire I was looking for (probably because, years later, I found out he was gay). I really had a way of falling for men who were gay. At one point I thought somehow I was turning them gay because on 4 different occasions I was the last person these men dated before they came out.

 But I digress. That story is for another time. Right now I'd like to continue telling you about hunkypants, HP for short. Another problem with HP was that he was a senior and would be moving to Washington DC soon. So I focused on our friendship and enjoyed working together and settled for him endlessly popping up in my dreams. Near the end of the school year I was so infatuated with him that I arranged to take over the lease of his apartment and live there for my senior year. I invited 3 girlfriends to move in with me so long as I got HP's bedroom (yes- I am embarrassed to admit that one).  I went back to Indiana to work for the summer and when the school year was about to start I moved all my stuff into his room and made sure to put my bed right where his had been.

 The very first weekend I was there HP drove in from DC and stopped by for a visit. I was ecstatic. I hadn't seen him in three months and he looked as hunky as ever. After a big hug we got caught up and then went out to grab some dinner. He told me he had a busy weekend so that night was going to be the only time I would see him. Then Sunday came.

 One of my best friends at the time, we'll call her Sissy, was my roommate for a second year in a row. Our junior year we'd have these late night, intense conversations on all kinds of (what seemed to be) critical matters.  Like what HP wore that day and how funny it was when his roommate dropped him off to our office on a particularly snowy day and he didn't realize until he got in the building that he had his, what came to be known as, dad slippers on. You know, the leather slip on kind that look so. . . mature. I told her how I loved him, not Dave, and we dissected his every move to try to detect if he loved me too. I felt really close to Sissy and grateful to have her as a friend.

 Okay, back to that first Sunday of my senior year. I'm sitting in my hunkypants bedroom when Sissy, rather sheepishly, knocked on my door. She proceeded to sit down on my bed and utter the following words. "HP and I have been on a few dates this summer and when we saw each other last night WE decided WE should tell you about it". She "we-d" me! Then she proceeded to tell me that a few weeks after I left for the summer he invited her to the movies and then they started hanging out. I was beyond devastated. All I could do was leave. I drove around for hours trying to clear my head.

 How could she? I felt so betrayed and so hurt. I had never revealed my feeling to HP. He wasn't to blame. But Sissy? I poured my heart out to her. I reported my every interaction with him to her. I couldn't imagine having to live in the same house with her for the next nine months but I also couldn't figure out any other way.   So when I returned to our apartment that night I went straight to my room. For several months I pretended like she didn't exist. Right after Thanksgiving I heard through another roommate that it was over between them. Over Christmas break HP came into town and asked if he could see me. We met over lunch, talked about everything except Sissy and surprisingly had a great time. We picked up right where we had left off except I was protecting myself big time.

 I proceeded very cautiously into friendship mode with HP and tried my best to forgive Sissy and be civil to her until graduation. The spring was very busy with student teaching and job searching and worrying about where I was going to live after graduation. I was also grappling with the fact that I had to admit to myself that I didn't want to become a music teacher. It was one of the only things I knew for sure. But it was also the only thing I was qualified for so I started interviews. The only teaching job I was offered was at the high school in Climax Michigan. I could not even picture telling my friends that I was moving to Climax so I took it as a sign from God that I shouldn't teach and decided to move to Washington DC.

 Prior to that decision I had made a pro and con list. Pros were things like living near Jill and Randy- two of my best friends in the world, being in a huge urban area where I could volunteer for lots of different orginations and maybe narrow down what type of work I would like to do. I had also researched this Volunteer Management Certificate I could get at an area college and I really wanted to sing in the Oratorio Society at the Kennedy Center. Some of the cons included not knowing where I would live, if I could find a job and HP. Out loud I considered him a liability because I was so afraid of being rejected and getting hurt. But deep inside I knew that I may as well have throw out my pro and con list. I just wanted to be closer to hunkypants.

  For the next year and a half we hung out all the time, took in the sights of DC and got to know each other really well. I never had the guts to profess my love but I also felt like he had to know how I felt. It was also clear that he deeply cared about me but he never said it and as each day passed it made me sadder and sadder.

  Over the holidays my dad died suddenly of a heart attack. I decided I needed to move closer to family. My mom was not a mentally stable woman and I wanted to be there for my sisters. Some friends in DC threw me a going away party the night before I left. In all my grief and pain I told HP that I thought it would be best if we simply said goodbye. He had started hanging out with a woman from his church and I couldn't take the ambiguity of it all anymore.

 A few weeks after I had come back to the Midwest I found an apartment with a good friend and found a job and started getting settled into this new life. Then there was a knock on the door. It was HP. He told me he was worried about me and just wanted to check in. I don't know how he found me. I hadn't spoken to him since I left Washington. But there he was, being Mr. Perfect Man, going way out of his way to check on a hurting friend. By then some of the shock of losing my dad had worn off and I knew I needed all the close friends I could get.

After he went back home I started to put my "adult" life together. I was the Executive Director of a shelter for abused women and their children. I was decorating an apartment and buying furniture like a grown up. And on my 25th birthday I met someone.  

HP had gone on to more seriously date the girl he had been hanging out with while I was there and I began a serious, "grown up" relationship. But HP and I remained very close. We talked all the time and saw each other whenever he came into town and for a little while there I think we were happy for each other.

 Then my relationship took a turn for the worse, complicated by the fact that I was pregnant and I suspected he was cheating. To help me decide what to do I had suggested we take a vacation . . . to Washington DC. I wanted HP to meet him and give me some advice and I wanted to just have some concentrated time with the boyfriend to figure out what to do next.

 It was on day two of vacation that it happened. I found myself on a double date with HP and his girlfriend. There I was, seated between the boyfriend and hunkypants, listening to a concert, and I started to cry. The only thing I knew for sure at that moment was that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with HP, not the father of my baby (who NO ONE knew about at the time). I made up some excuse about how beautiful and emotional the music was and excused myself to the restroom.

 A few weeks later my boyfriend and I broke up. A few weeks after that I had a miscarriage that I never told anyone about. I kept in close contact with HP but he continued to date his girlfriend.  When he came to Grand Rapids to visit his parents for Christmas, I knew he had just broken up with his girlfriend. She had told him to propose or get lost. I decided that I had to tell him exactly how I felt and let the chips fall where they may. Tell the truth with no regrets.  But he broke our date and then had to return to DC before I ever got to see him.

I decided to write him a letter and explain to him that from the moment we had met, four and a half years earlier, I had wanted to someday be his wife. I told him that if he asked me to marry him, I would say yes. I told him that I would quit any job and move anywhere to be with him.

 A few days passed and no phone call. A few weeks passed and not even a letter. A few months passed and I got the invitation. The invitation to his wedding, with a handwritten note inside. He told me that I was strong and smart and independent and never acted like I really needed anyone. He said that he needed to feel needed. He wanted to take care of someone and she fit into the mold of his conservative family. She would not rock the boat or make his mom uncomfortable. She wasn't career driven and would be happy at home taking care of a family. How could he have known me so well and been so wrong about me at the same time? How could he not have known that I could be all of those things? Why didn't he know that I was just afraid to ever let him know how much I needed him?

I didn't go to the wedding. I never spoke to hunkypants again.  But I did start seeing a counselor. I was a big tangled up ball of issues that needed unraveling. I did some really hard work and I promised myself that I was not going to become a man hater (even though I thought I had every right to be). So, today I can truly say that I love men!  And I still hope to find one who makes me weak in the knees and blush when I peek at his tush.

That Wasn't Even The Half Of It- The First Time Part 2

The doctor walked in the room and said, "Well the good news is, we have a diagnosis.  You have PCOS- Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome." After the relief of knowing there was a name for what I was going through, reality set in. Out of control weight gain, hair growing in places it shouldn't, fertility problems, extreme hormonal fluxuation and unpredictable periods, to name a few symptoms. I was 21 years old and facing a future that would include daily medications, managing some pretty unfortunate symptoms and some bleak possibilities.

For the next few years it wasn't so bad. Once they found the right birth control pill to manage my cycle I hardly had any pain. But the December after my 25th birthday the medication stopped working so my doctor decided to try a different approach.

A few months later I went back for my annual exam and when my doctor read the results of my blood tests she said that the window for the possibility of ever getting pregnant was closing. As a matter of fact, even with fertility treatment, it might already be gone.

At that point in my life I had learned an important lesson: Once you lose your virginity it's gone, period. I never felt the same. Another thing I knew was that having sex with someone you loved was amazing.  After a very confusing and traumatic "first time" I no longer felt any motivation to restrain myself. I also was in a long distance relationship so everytime I saw my boyfriend we were staying over at each other's apartment. The temptation was too great. And my greatest motivation to wait was gone.

We had been talking about getting married and I told him that after watching friends and family jump into marriage before they really had a chance to get to know one another, I had decided that I would not get married before I had dated someone for all four seasons. We had met in the summer on my birthday and so we talked about getting married the next summer, on my birthday.

But that spring I was beginning to have my doubts. My close friends and family were worried about me too. I kept trying to convince myself that the warning signs were in my head. Not to mention the fact that I felt like my chances at being a mother were fading fast.

After my change in medication, we started using condoms. But we weren't that careful. I was told that I was not ovulating on my own anymore and besides, I was in a monogamous relationship.

At the beginning of June I found out I was pregnant. I was thrilled, disappointed, scared, confused, torn and worried, to name a few of the emotions I was experiencing at the time. I was expecting to elope the next month but I knew that decision was a cop-out on my end. I told myself we were going to run off and get married because he had been married before but deep in my heart I knew I was doing it because none of my close family and friends would be excited about this wedding and really deep down I suspected I wasn't either.

People who loved me were worried and I hadn't even told them about some of the things he had done. I was so confused but I was so in love with this man. I believed in the possibility of who he could become but I knew I didn't trust him.

So I suggested we take a vacation. I thought I would be able to figure out what to do after we had some concentrated time together. The last week of June we packed up the car and drove to Washington DC. His parents had given us a week in their time share and we stayed in Virginia in a beautiful, romantic park overlooking a waterfall.  The whole week I felt like I should be happy but I wasn't. We fought on several occasions but at other moments he treated me like a princess. I finished the week as confused as ever. The only decision I made was that I wasn't going to tell anyone about the baby until after the wedding, including him. At the very least I wanted to know he was deciding to marry me for me, not because of an unplanned pregnancy.

The day, well almost the minute that I got home from our trip my sister called. I don't remember the conversation that well. All I know is that she said she had to tell me something that she knew would hurt me. She said, "Your fiancé was accused of having sex with a woman at a party the week before you went on vacation." My sister said that this woman was saying that it was a rape. I was shattered. I never thought I could hurt that bad.

Hours later, after I had somewhat composed myself and after I knew he had had enough time to drive from Grand Rapids back to Indiana, I called him. Through my tears I told him what I knew. I never even asked if it was true. It was beside the point. I knew it was over. A few days later I drove to Indiana to see him once more face to face. He spoke the words that I couldn't. We went through the details of breaking up. We gave keys back and I gathered the things I had at his apartment and we said goodbye.

A few weeks later I panicked. Again, reality started to set in and I had to decide how to deal with the fact that there was a baby in my belly. I wrote him a letter begging him to go to counseling, talk to my pastor, go to his parents for help, do any and everything to make it up to me and promise to become the man I knew he really wanted to be.

Weeks passed and I heard nothing. Then I started bleeding.  I went to the doctor and there was no detectable heartbeat. I had lost the baby. At that time I still hadn't told anyone about the baby. I had the procedure alone. Then went onwith life trying to pretend like nothing had happened. A few weeks later, as my head started to clear, I knew I needed to be tested for STDs and HIV.  I was so ashamed of myself that I decided to never tell anyone about my baby or any of it . . . until last year.


Why last year? Well, I was 41 years old, strangely sick and no one could tell me why. It wasn't the PCOS. Six years ago I had started hemmoraging really bad, after bleeding for nine months straight. I was 35 years old and I had to have a radical hysterectomy- no more ovaries, no uterus, no cervix. It was all removed. I had grown a cyst the size of a football so it all had to come out.

Now I was throwing up all the time and no one knew why. Last year, in about May, I began to wonder if the secrets and pain of the past were making me sick. I decided to try to find him, after 15 years, and tell him about the baby, to talk about everything. The details of that conversation don't matter. He doesn't matter anymore. But I knew that telling him was only the first step in coming clean.  

I had to tell those people who loved me the most. One by one, I very unpoetically blurted out my story. It's been hard, really emotionally exhausting, but in the end good. Which is why I'm now telling you. Maybe my story can help someone else make better choices than I did. I haven't stopped throwing up all the time yet, but here's hoping.

My First Time

My mom was a very crazy but kind of progressive woman. When I turned 16 she sat me down and we had our umpteenth conversation about sex. Only this time her focus was only on birth control. She explained all the options and how to get them and then told me that when I needed to, come to her and she would be happy to help me get what I needed. Several times I tried to stop this heart to heart then finally I interrupted her and said, "MOM, I'm telling you, I am waiting for marriage. We do not need to have this conversation right now." Then I paused and said, "Let me amend that- marriage or 25 (which sounded ages away). I don't think even God would expect me to wait any longer than that." I smiled and she hugged me and we laughed together. It was a really good moment in what was otherwise a very rocky relationship.

All through high school and college I had fun dates, a few boyfriends and a couple times I thought I had found "the one". After college, I even followed a guy to Washington DC and lived there for two years because I was sure he was it, but he wasn't. Through all of those years I kept my promise to myself to wait for marriage, to be pure. I totally expected that I would only truly share my whole self with one man, my husband.

Then I met Joe. My dad had died suddenly of a heart attack a few months before and I had moved back to Grand Rapids so I would be closer to my mom and three younger sisters. The weekend of my 25th birthday I came home to Indiana to celebrate with family. When I walked in the house my mom introduced me to a coworker who had stopped by to do some sort of home repair for her. I was immediately attracted and his pop-in to screw or nail or weld whatever he was fixing turned into a five hour conversation on the front steps. As he was leaving I told him that I was having a pool party on Sunday for my birthday and he should stop by. And he did.

The next week he drove two hours north and visited me. A few weeks later he told me he loved me. Long distance bills piled up, our gas money got steep and we were spending every minute we could together. Neither one of us had a cell phone yet but I had to carry a pager for work and throughout the day it would beep with the numbers 143- I (1 letter) LOVE (4 letters) YOU (3 letters).

Now Joe was not the kind of man I thought I would end up with. He was 30 years old, had been married before- TWICE, and was a security guard at a maximum security prison. Frankly, he was not the man anyone thought I would end up with but no one had any doubt that I had fallen hard for this guy.

Early in our relationship I sat down with him and gave my own sex talk. I told him that I knew this would be hard for him but I was really committed to waiting. I told him about a sermon my pastor had preached where he took two pieces of duct tape and stuck them to each other then showed us how practically impossible it was to tear them apart. He then took two other pieces and stuck one to the pulpit and one to the carpet. He then ripped them off and stuck one to his jacket and the other to his hand. Then he tried to stick them to each other and they would not stick. He compared this to sex and said the more partners each person has slept with before they find each other the harder it will be to really bond. I told Joe, "Honey, I want to be sticky. You are not as sticky, I'm not sure where this is going and I want to give my marriage the best chance to create as strong a bond as possible." He laughed and hugged me then cupped his hands around  my cheeks and told me that he respected and loved me for being sticky and he could honor my wishes. I could trust him.

The evening before Thanksgiving, Joe was in town and so were some friends from college. We made plans to all meet at a fancy restaurant and I was really excited to introduce them to my boyfriend. We had so much fun! I remember feeling so happy, so safe, so comfortable. My friends and I ordered a pitcher of Sangria, Joe drank a beer and we had some fantastic food. At one point in the evening I leaned over and whispered to Joe about who was going to drive back to my apartment. He said he would switch to water and for me not to worry about a thing. So I poured myself another glass of Sangria. Then my friend poured me a glass, then her husband poured me a glass and it was only when I went to stand up to leave that I realized I was really drunk. I remember coming back to my apartment and kissing Joe. The rest of the night is a bit of a blur.

I woke up very early in the morning with a terrible headache and a funny feeling. How did I get to bed? Where were my underwear? Why did I notice some blood after I went to the bathroom? I started to panic and woke up Joe and asked what happened when we came home from our date. Then he said it, "We made love." My head was spinning. I started crying and I fell to the floor. He picked me up and said, "I know you want me to regret it but I don't, it's natural and I love you." I racked my head for any memory of it. Vague images flashed in my brain.

Then I pushed him away and said, "But I trusted you. I never trust anyone but I trusted you! You knew what I wanted. You promised me that it was fine with you. You told me that you even wanted to wait with me. You wanted it to be special. I can't even remember it!!!." And I stormed out of the room.


The next few hours I sat on the couch while Joe slept in my twin bed. I was convinced that I had let it happen, that he couldn't help it, that I was to blame for having too much to drink. My final assessment was that the only way to make this feel ok was to assure myself that at the very least he would be "the one" and technically, still I will have only ever been with my husband.

We had a comepletely silent drive to Indiana for what was my first family holiday without my dad. My mom had decided that she couldn't bare making dinner so for the first (and only) time in my life I had Thanksgiving dinner at The Old Country Buffet. The worst holiday of my life, filled with firsts.

It took me years to forgive myself for that night and much longer for me to realize the truth about that night. It was the night that I was raped by my boyfriend. It took me many more months to break it off but thank God, he did not become my husband. And I am A okay about that.

CoupleWorld

I'm days away from "being in my forties" and you want to know what I'm sick of? I'm sick of not going with anybody. I was at an outdoor dinner party the other night when my friend's neighbor walked up to say hi. It went something like this:

neighbor: just wanted to stop over and say hi.
friend: hey neighbor, you remember Becki.
neighbor: sure, hi Becki. with Jim, right?
friend: and Sharon.
neighbor: now who do you go with?
sharon: (pointing) him, my husband Bill.
friend: and this is Jennifer.
neighbor: (looks around, no more boys) silence.

Don't get me wrong. I was really happy to be there. It's an annual tradition that I very much look forward to and treasure. One thing married folk probably don't notice is that if you're not "The Johnsons" or "The Smiths" you rarely get invited to stuff like that. Dinner parties of three, five or seven don't happen much. If you are part of a couple then you get to go out with couples, have drinks with couples, bar-b-que with couples. Couples do that. Couples couple. The Smiths rarely invite The Jennifer over for the evening. It's nobody's fault. It just is.

I have a mental list of people I would be friends with if I were a we. I have one imaginary tradition in my mind of the couple we'd go to the Civic Theater with (we would all have season tickets). I know what meal I would make if ? and I had The Johnsons over. I actually have a bottle of wine I will open some day when The Smiths drop by for an evening of board games. I even listen to the podcast called "The Dinner Party Download" faithfully so I'll be ready. Unfortunately, The Jones don't invite The Jennifer on vacation to Cancun. They just don't :(

I have fantastic friends, both married and unmarried. I have awesome traditions and adventures and evenings out and vacations. I'm very lucky to be loved by so many interesting and hilarious people. I just want to be loved by one more. The one man who holds the key to CoupleWorld.

My dream evening would go something like this: Making reservations for four (not sure why, I've never gone anywhere that required a reservation in my life!). Being dropped off at the door because it's raining (romantic evenings always include some rain). Having a coffee with Irish Cream for dessert even though I had a few glasses of wine with dinner (my dream relies on my husband being the designated driver for some reason even though I rarely drink at all). Chatting about the highlights of the evening on the way home (laugh and sigh). Sharing the sink while we brush our teeth. Then spooning. Is that too much to ask?

Condoms, Condoms, Condoms

This time last year I was completely freaking out about an article featuring me that was coming out in our local paper. I was asked to be interviewed by the writer of the profile section. She had talked to me for several hours, talked to some friends and co-workers, sent out photographers four different times and asked for a stack of my own pictures as well. It had been an intense process and I was completely second guessing my decision to have participated.

I literally felt like I was placing my life is this woman's hands. I know this sounds dramatic. I just never had any idea how vulnerable I would feel about anyone else telling my story. Someone else's interpretation of me for public consumption- Yikes! And I knew I wasn't going to get to see the article until the paper hit my front stoop. No chance for my "helpful suggestions, edits and/or corrections".

I had no idea how my life, boiled down to a few paragraphs and pictures, would come across. I was much more afraid about how that kind of reflection would feel to me than what anyone else would think.

I've often wondered how friends describe me to a stranger. I'd hate to be a fly on the wall for that. Would it be all physical attributes? What traits of my personality would be worthy enough to include in a basic description? I thought I had a pretty good idea of how I come across to others but I had never really tested that theory. I was self aware enough to wonder whether or not I was really self aware.

So Sunday came and I popped out to the front porch, held my breath, picked up the paper and started shuffling. All I could see was that the cover photo they chose was much bigger than I had expected (unlike the above copy, the original was also crystal clear). It was taken of me sitting at a table strewn with materials from my work and a little stackable pamphlet holder. At the time I was the Executive Director of an HIV/AIDS prevention organization. Three rows of brochures are all you can really see besides me- each one with the title “condoms”. The only legible words  in the whole photo are condoms, condoms, condoms. I hadn't even noticed them sitting there. Now the first thing my Gramma was going to see would be CONDOMS.

So instead of bringing her the article I decided to mail it to her so I didn't have to witness her first response. I was right though; I got the condom comment first. The second thing she noticed was that there were no pictures of her featured and no stories about her told. What are you going to do? But like I said, for me, this wasn't about her opinion of the article; it was about how it made me feel.

While the behind the scenes prep was happening I kept questioning whether or not I have done enough with the opportunities I had been given. I was taking pause to consider whether or not I had used my talents and gifts tirelessly and for the glory of God. I was worried that my sad stories would over shadow the glorious moments in my life. I wondered what the writer would conclude from this peek into my private life.

So I sat down and read it, had my sisters read it and then I reread it. Spoke with my friends who had read it and we all concluded basically the same thing. The article reflected a refreshing sense of balance in my life - with the positives outweighing the negatives by a hair. I learned that day that to be comfortable I only need a hair.

Finally, May I make a suggestion? Repeat the process! Everyone deserves the gift that I have been given- a refection of who you are through someone else’s eyes. 40 felt like a really good time to look back and to look forward but especially to look around. Find out what your family, friends and co-workers have to say about your life so far. Get a gifted writer you trust to put it all together. Spend time going through your stashes of photos and decide which ones speak most profoundly to your life story. Plan a photo shoot reflecting the things that are most important to you right now. As Vanilla Ice says, “Stop, Collaborate and Listen”. It does the body good, real good.

Original article can be found at http://www.mlive.com/living/grand-rapids/index.ssf/2009/06/profile_hivaids_powerhouse_jen.html
~                                                                                         ~

That's All Folks!

I love Looney Tunes, Merry Melodies, Bugs Bunny, Warner Brothers Cartoons- whatever you want to call them. They are fantastic! Even the gratuitously violent ones. This is the one instance that I figure, "They didn't turn me into a violent maniac, Mady's going to love them as much as I do". Thank you YouTube for keeping the dream alive.

When I was a kid I would spoon with my dad on the couch, my head cupped by his upper arm and pit, tune in some LT and laugh my head off. Of course most of the jokes were over my head so I would take my cues from him. If he laughed, I laughed louder. Many of our family's jokes were based on those cartoons. The combo of Chuck Jones' directing and Mel Blanc's voices- genius.

When I was in college, majoring in Music Education, I was absolutely stunned by how many pieces of classical music I was familiar with. I aced music history. Thank you Looney Tunes. And my first trip to the opera was fantastical. I could hum along, not the same words but the melody was there thanks to Porky Pig.

After college I moved to Washington D.C. Sometime during my second year there I learned that there was a Warner Brothers store in one of the malls. I was like a kid walking into a candy store. All of my heroes were there! Hello Sylvester. Nice to see you Tweety. It's been too long, good ol' Yosemite Sam. And then I saw it- a black and blue checkered, wool lined, floppy eared men's hat. All our friends were embroidered on the front. My dad had to have it.

I pictured him proudly wearing it to work. All the guys (mostly relatives) would be so jealous. My dad spent 25 years out in the cold all winter pouring cement slabs. He deserved a toasty, cool hat to top off his look which included lots of layers, snow pants and his ever present dickey. I could hardly wait to come home for Christmas.

When the big day arrived and he opened my gift he reacted just as I had hoped. He loved it! I think he actually beamed. I'd like to believe he was thinking back, as I was, to our days snuggling on the couch. He wore it to work the very next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. On the forth day the unimaginable occurred. He came home early from work. Went to take a nap and suddenly died of a heart attack. He wore and worked in that hat for 3.5 days. I had hoped it would be for 35 years.

Happy Father's Day Dad. I miss you very much.

A Little Light-Hearted Fun, Anyone?

Asked someone to marry you? Guilty, I guess. I once told someone that if he asked me to marry him I would say yes. Does that count? 

Ever kissed someone of the same sex? Guilty. One serious kiss, under a tree, the summer after 8th grade. She was a really messed up girl who had been terribly abused. I didn't see it coming.

Danced on a table in a bar? Innocent. I've seen too many America's Funny Videos to even try.

Ever told a lie? Guilty. 

Had feelings for someone whom you can’t have back? Guilty. And he bought a house a mile away from me after living across the country for years.

Kissed a picture? Guilty. Paul Young calender. I even have a picture of me kissing the picture. "Every Time You Go Away" should start playing in the background right now.

Slept in until 5 PM? Innocent. I think my latest was 2 PM and I woke up so disoriented I didn't know what to do with myself.

Fallen asleep at work/school? Guilty. If I was having a 7 PM meeting at my office after working all day I would sometimes snooze on the couch in the reception area after everyone left at 5.

Held a snake? Guilty. And I hated it. The tail came poking out between my legs and I nearly ran back to my car.

Been suspended from school? Innocent. I even waved at the principal once as I was leaving the school to skip the rest of the day to go shopping for prom dresses.

Worked at a fast food restaurant? Guilty. I worked at Arby's on the Indiana Toll Road. Lots of slimy truckers to contend with all day. I asked one guy if he would like cream or sugar with his coffee. He replied, "Just swish your little finger in there for a minute and that'll be enough sweetness for me". I wanted to throw up!

Stolen from a store? Guilty. Hooks Drug Store. Around 10 years old. Mom sent me to buy some aspirin. I stuck them in my pocket to try on some sunglasses. Then I picked up a few other things, checked out and left the store. When I realized I had the aspirin AND the money in my pocket, I went back into the store to buy some candy with the money. Got caught. Cried my eyes out. Never stole again.

Done something you regret? Guilty. Who hasn’t? I kept a pretty big secret for a long time. Just told a few people recently. It felt good.

Laughed until something you were drinking came out your nose? Guilty. In 7th grade, with my best peeps Wendy and Brad. More than once. But, more often than that, I've made others laugh in this manner.

Caught a snowflake on your tongue? Guilty. And have taught others. Mady is great at it.

Kissed in the rain? Guilty. But the guy turned out to be gay so it wasn't too steamy.

Sat on a roof top? Guilty. Heritage Hill for the 4th of July. I still can't believe no one fell off. There was a lot of wine, lots.

Kissed someone you shouldn’t? Guilty, I guess. No, I choose Innocent. Kissing is good even if it's not the right person. I often find myself puckering when I see someone kiss on TV even. I'm a natural :)

Sang in the shower? Innocent. But my Uncle Tommy would give full blown concerts!! 

Been pushed into a pool with all your clothes on? Not sure. But I do remember having contests with my sisters to see who could take their suits off the fastest while underwater. I think Annie was the champ!

Shaved your head? Innocent. But my sister did. She looked a little cancer/chic.

Had a boxing membership? Innocent. I'm a hugger not a hitter.

Made a girlfriend cry? Guilty. And it sucks.

Been in a band? Guilty. Does a Praise Band count? My lifelong dream is to sing harmony in a local band, especially now that bars are smoke-free. Anyone looking for a kick ass backup singer??

Shot a gun? Guilty. My mom sold off part of our land to have a shooting range built. . . right next to the tavern! She then bought a gun and made me go over and shoot it. I screamed so loud that everyone in the place thought I had killed someone. Never again.

Donated Blood? Guilty. But it took 7 pokes to get a vein and I'm never going back. Sorry!

Eaten alligator meat? Guilty. Tried it a few times. In Singapore, the Bahamas and a wild game place in Denver. Tastes like chicken.

Eaten cheesecake? Guilty. Are you kidding me? New York style, Chicago, frozen, on a stick, jello brand, cherry, blueberry, pumpkin, white chocolate raspberry truffle, peanut butter . . . But the Pièce de Résistance would have to be the Red Velvet Cheesecake from The Cheesecake Factory I had a few weeks ago. A slice of heaven!

Still love someone you shouldn’t? Innocent. Not in love. sad face

Have/had a tattoo? Guilty. After a bout with cancer I got a tattoo of an angel on my shoulder, hovering over my scar.

Liked someone, but will never tell who? Innocent. I'm a pretty open book kind of person. 

Been too honest? Guilty.

Ruined a surprise? Innocent. But made myself sick trying so hard not to blow it.

Erased someone in your friends list? Guilty. Not all friends turn out to be so friendly, if you know what I mean.

Joined a pageant? Innocent. But I've always wanted to learn to tap dance and twirl a baton.

Had communication with your ex? Guilty.  But it really felt good to get some closure. Even 14 years later.

Been told that you’re handsome or beautiful by someone who totally meant what they said? Guilty. Had a guy sing "You Are So Beautiful to Me" once. One of the sweetest moments of my life. Thanks Doug :)

And Two Makes 15

Two years ago I was diagnosed with malignant melanoma. I had gone to my doctor for a physical. She didn't like the look of a mole on my back so she referred me to a dermatologist. A few weeks later, on a Friday, at about 6:30 p.m., I got a call from Dr. Hammond's office. It was the secretary, sounding very rushed. She read off the biopsy results like a grocery list. "It says here that you have malignant melanoma. The doctor doesn't have time to talk to you right now but you can give him a call next week". The only thing I could think to ask was, "Does that mean I have cancer?" She said, "Yes and have a good weekend." I was stunned, feeling very ignorant and helpless. Who shares news like that by phone, from a  non-medical person, on a Friday night??

I can totally relate to George on Seinfeld when he got test results back and was told they were negative and he went ballistic- "Oh my God, I'm gonna die. The test is negative."  Until two years ago I've always thought the word benign sounded as bad or worse than malignant- "Oh my God, I'm going to die. The tumor is benign!!" But besides the way a few words sounded, I had no knowledge of the language of cancer. And nothing makes me feel more out of control than a lack of knowledge.

My family lovingly(?) refers to me as the "homeschooler". I love to research things I don't understand- start a binder, fill it with articles, book reviews, notes and pictures- fantastic! I have my laptop set up on my bed and look up stuff as I'm watching a show, reading a book, listening to a podcast. The best advise I ever got  was to immediately stop what I'm doing and look up a word when I read or hear one I don't understand.

So, at 6:32 p.m. I was off to look up malignant melanoma. The first thing I read was, "Melanoma is the deadliest form of skin cancer. Whether it's called malignant melanoma or simply melanoma, this cancer can metastasize (spread) rapidly." The only person I had ever known with melanoma was dead. Most people around me were as ignorant as I was about melanoma. Some friends thought of the news as not much more than a pimple, some thought it was a death sentence. Most responded like I did with a lot of questions. Everyone responded with lots of love and support.

What came next was pretty straight forward. I was referred to an oncologist who proceeded to remove about a softball size of skin and muscle from my back and several lymph nodes from my left armpit. Test results showed that the cancer had not spread so no further treatment was necessary. Follow-up has included lots of protection from the sun, regular full-body exams from the dermatologist and support from Gilda's Club.

Unfortunately, every exam has resulted in more biopsies. Including last week's two, I have had 15 suspicious spots removed. That's about five stitches each time, both under and on the surface of the skin- 150 or so total. My back and arms look like Frankenstein's monster. I see the doctor every three to six months and pray that she will utter the words, "Everything looks good. We'll see you in six months." I haven't heard those words yet.

Yesterday I got the call I've mentally prepared for everytime I have another biopsy. "We found abnormal cells. The cancer is back. Let's schedule surgery."  Two times out of 15. What are the odds of that?

He Didn't Even Comp the Chicken

When I was 15 my mom burned down our house- on purpose. She rigged up the clothes dryer, which was in the room right next door to my bedroom, so it would explode. I'll never forget that day. My dad was at work but because it was summer break, my mom, my three sisters and I were all home. My mom was acting a little strange, unusually happy/strange. She suggested we all take lunch to my dad and then do a little shopping. First of all, she NEVER took lunch to my dad and almost never took us shopping. So after surprising my dad with fast food, we headed to Kmart. While I was in the dressing room trying on swimsuits I heard an announcement over the P.A. I was asked to meet my mom at customer service right away. Since my mom had been acting so "funny" I thought she was playing a trick on me so I didn't come right away. When I finally saw her face, I knew nothing was going to be funny again for a long time.

The next thing I remember, we were approaching our house and I saw black smoke and bluish/reddish/orangish flames shooting out of the windows. The firefighters were on the roof cutting out a huge hole. By the time the fire was extinguished many people from town were standing in our front yard. Curiously, some folks were walking into MY house, random neighbors and strangers, to personally assess the damages. It felt like my world flipped upside down and someone had posted an Open House sign on our lawn without our permission.

Later that evening, with nothing but the dirty, sooty clothes on our backs, we ended up at my gramma's house. We were all in shock, feeling very overwhelmed, but hungry. At the time, I was working at a local bowling alley that had a kitchen so I called in an order of fried chicken and potatoes and told the boss I might not be in the next day. My gramma drove me to the place to pick up our food. Even though I was a stinky mess, everyone came out to hug me and offer their sympathies. When I was about to leave I grabbed my wallet and a co-worker said, "That'll be $26.50". Unexpectantly, I felt stunned. I paid the bill then got back in the car and said to my gramma, "He didn't even comp the chicken."

A few days passed. The insurance company delivered a very small trailer into our front yard. We would go on to live there for six months while our house was being gutted and then rebuilt. Then donations started showing up on the doorstep. Lots of very generous gifts of toiletries, pillows, blankets, jammies, food, etc. were given to us. But what was also delivered, mostly after dark, with no knock at the door was stuff like this: men's jeans with no zipper in a size 54' waist, a dilapidated, stained-up stroller (my youngest sister was six or seven at the time), gym shoes that had already been downgraded to someones lawn mowing shoes, broken toys. In other words, other people's trash. We then had the additional burden of loading this stuff up and hauling it to the dump. We couldn't just leave it out for the garbage truck to pick up- we didn't want to look ungrateful.

There are so many moments in my life that have passed by unnoticed and unremembered. That summer there were several important memories/lessons burned into my brain forever.

1. The lure of money and new stuff can make a crazy person do super crazy things. I'll never forget wading through the muck of what used to be my bedroom with a clipboard trying to write down everything I had lost- pictures, awards, my stuffed animal collection, audio tapes of the "radio programs" my sisters and I had recorded. My mom instructed me to write down stuff I wanted, even if I hadn't had it in my room, because "that's what the insurance company would want me to do."

2. Whenever possible, "comp the chicken". I try to remember how much of a negative impact that moment had for me. It could have been a memory of love and support, a story I would have repeated to everyone. "Do you know what my boss did, he said our money was no good here tonight. That was so cool!" Instead I remember it with a sting.

3. Give from the very best you have whenever you can. It felt like the donations given to us were a reflection of what people thought of us. No one knew my mom had started the fire. I didn't know it for many, many years. Almost no one knows it even now. Some people gave to us sacrificially. It was hard to be the recipient of charity from anyone, even at 15 years old, but it taught me great lessons about love. Lessons about what to do and what not to do.

My mom is gone now. She died in a car accident eight years ago. Although she did a lot of crazy things (I'm sure some more stories will surface in this blog), I'm amazed at how often her "crazy" taught me big important lessons. Not the method most parents use to "teach their children well", nevertheless there were tons of ah-ha moments in there. If I look closely, I know for sure- the crazy moments in life are the ones I learn from the most.

Fake It 'Til You Make It, Sista!

How many times have you thrown up? Most people can probably give a good estimate. It's that rare, gross, memorable event that, for most, adds up slowly over a lifetime. For me it's different. I've probably thrown up a hundred times since Christmas. I wake up most days nauseated and more often than not I get sick. I don't know why, my doctors don't know why. I've taken every medication made, had everything under the sun tested and probed and still no diagnosis. Sometimes it's a bonus day and I pass out too. The last time that happened I was running up a hill and the next thing I know, I'm on the ground groaning about a dislocated shoulder. I have no memory of falling- everything just went black.

Sometimes the symptoms subside throughout the day. Some days I feel sick but never get sick- if you know what I mean, and I think you do! So I'm constantly trying to evaluate my condition and trying to guess whether or not to push myself or rest. Most of the time I'm happy I pushed myself, sometimes I regret it, sometimes I stay home. Last Friday I pushed myself and regretted it.

Some friends and family and I had tickets to a Whitecaps baseball game. I felt cruddy all day long (see before picture) but really wanted to go. So I made myself get cleaned up (see after shot). I not only did the normal routine but I added a few extra steps (polished the nails, gooped up the hair, walked through a mist of my best perfume. . .) to try to psych myself into feeling top notch.

For awhile it worked. But when the game was over- it didn't. I had a major blowout. Right there in the ballpark, in the hall, in the parking lot, in the car. So gross and embarrassing. I wanted to die, literally.

My motto- "fake it til you make it" almost did the trick. It just didn't get me home. I guess I'll have to live with it, for now.

Lean into it, Jennifer

I have an ipod, a dvr, a computer- when my mind strays, I rewind in 30 second increments. When what I'm listening to is really good I repeat, now more easily and often than ever. I probably pause my favorite podcasts ten times before I get through them. Technology has ruined any rudimentary skill of concentration I ever used to have. I reach for the non-existent button on my car radio to replay some detail I missed. My niece, Madalynn, takes her little five year old finger and pushes the imaginary pause icon in the middle of page 10 on "Are You My Mother" so she can share a "really important" thought with me. So when I recently heard Anne Lamott speak in Grant, Michigan, I felt an unrelenting urge to pause and sometimes rewind her talk so my mind could catch up with the profound, funny, simple, deep, poetic and beautiful stories she shared.

People who inspire me most are those who know how to lift me out of my world by weaving a well-crafted story like a tapestry. I'm much more impressed by the way someone tells a story than the accuracy of that story. Not that folks would lie and exaggerate on purpose but if a story is told well, it's magical to me. Some of my favorite podcasts are all about good storytelling- This American Life, Studio 360, The Moth, Risk!, Slate's Culture Gabfest, Dinner Party Download, The Story, and any of Ricky Gervais' stuff. These programs send me off to my dreams every night now. I feel like a kid again- on one of those rare occasions where my dad would tell me a story until I fell asleep. He was a great storyteller!

I'm going to give storytelling a try through this blog. A lot of friends have told me that I have some interesting stories to tell. So, I'll attempt to weave a tapestry that has been my life so far and see what happens. Some stories will be sad, hopefully some will be funny and most of all I hope some will lift you out of your world for a minute and it will feel good.


Anne Lamott challenged us to "just write". Just make yourself write everyday and see what happens. So, welcome to my experiment. I'm going to lean into it- my past, my fears, my foibles and doubts and see what happens. If I try to write everyday for awhile, maybe a few good stories will emerge and I will share them here. Wish me good luck :)