Trip Report

As usual, I'm way behind. Behind on household stuff. Behind on my paying work. And behind on this, which was supposed to be a place for me to pile up my thoughts. Instead, they are piling up in my brain. As I may have mentioned, my brain is short on space these days, so it's time to empty out the drawers and dust the corners.

Our trip to Wyoming was a big success. We spent 3 days driving from Seattle to Jackson, 5 days in Jackson, then another 3 driving home (including 2 days at Yellowstone). My little monkeys were better than expected in the car, thanks to the occasional well-timed DVD, some books on tape, and a fresh collection of books from the library.



One highlight of this trip was seeing my kids take risks. Not the dangerous kind, mind you, but stretching themselves beyond their usual (narrow) comfort zones. We went whitewater rafting, and Jack actually sat right up in front of the boat with me, gleefully taking the drenching we got with every rapid. We went horseback riding, and they put Timothy right up on his own horse. He looked like a natural, sitting back in the saddle like a real cowboy.

I think it's easier to take risks like that when you're away from home. You're already away from your ordinary life. The expectations are different - if you have any at all.

In many ways this trip felt like the vacations we took when I was a kid. I remember riding from Virginia to Indiana (where my aunt had a house on Lake Michigan) in the back of our station wagon. My three brothers rode in the back seat; I got to share the "way back" with the dog and the suitcases. I could curl up back there with a book and before I knew it we'd be at our destination.

I'm encouraged to keep traveling with my kids, to keep giving them chances to stretch and grow.

That said, we had a lot of togetherness. It's good to be home where I can duck into my office and be alone for a bit!

On the road

When Steve and I moved from Washington, D.C. to Seattle, we made a road trip out of it. We spent a whole month meandering about the country, camping and staying with friends. That was 14 years, a wedding, two kids, and many jobs ago, and it's been about that long since we've taken a road trip. Scratch that - we did drive to Colorado when Jack was not yet 2, but all I remember from that journey was trying to find clean places to change Jack's diaper. (Clean? Diapers? I know.)

So now we're on the road again, with both kids. Our ultimate destination is Jackson, Wyoming, but we're taking some time to meander through Idaho and Montana. It's strange to me that in the 14 years I've lived in Seattle I've never been to these neighboring states.

My plan, on this trip, was to read and write while Steve drove. So much for plans! Mostly I've been looking out the window, watching the world go by.

Today we're in Missoula. Yesterday we took the boys to Silverwood theme park in north Idaho, and discovered a wonderful state park, Farragut. Next, we'll head toward Yellowstone. I've got a brand new camera that I've been playing with, so I'll post some pictures later.

Time to get back on the road. More later.

Happy days

The Assertive Cancer Patient is joining forces with other bloggers to write about health and happiness. Since I always have more than two cents worth of an opinion about, well, everything, I thought I'd jump on the bandwagon.

I’ve always thought that if I got a terminal diagnosis – a year, six months to live – I’d want to get busy living. I’d quit my job, cash in my savings and go off to see the world. I’d make a list of all the things I had always wanted to do and I would go off and do them, checking items off the list one by one. I figured if I was going to die, I might as well die happy.

Now I see things a little differently. And I think perhaps I had the wrong idea about what happiness is.

My mother died almost a year ago of pancreatic cancer. We knew from the time she was diagnosed that her days were going to be limited, though we hoped she’d have a year or more.

As it was she lived 8 months. During that time she had some low days, no doubt. But she also had some of the purest happy moments I’ve ever witnessed. It was the happiness you see in the eyes of a child, like she was looking at the world with a renewed sense of wonder.

She did take a few trips. One to Michigan to see her brother, one to Virginia to visit her lifelong friends, and another to Mexico with me just because. But she didn’t pack up her suitcase to go globetrotting. To my mom, eking the most out of whatever time she had left meant staying right at home, with the people who meant the most to her.

My mom found joy in working in her garden, watching the birds, and laughing at her grandchildren. She found joy reading, eating lunch out on her deck, or beating me at Scrabble. The same things she loved before she was diagnosed brought happiness afterward. Maybe even (dare I say it?) more.

When we went to Mexico, I spent our last day sitting on the beach alone. At the time, I wrote this:

I spent the morning on the beach, looking for treasures and watching sand sift through my fingers. I realized that this is it – this is what we have: sand. And just like sand, life falls through our fingers, no matter how hard we clench our fists. I have to learn to enjoy feeling it as it goes by.

It’s a little bit like the Buddhist concept of mindfulness. I wonder how many happy moments I’ve let slip by without even feeling them? I’m trying not to do that anymore.

I have learned that happiness isn’t necessarily found in big grand adventures. It’s more likely to show up in the little moments. The pieces of every day that make up a life.

Cancer stole a lot from us. There’s no getting around that. And I’m not one of those people who will say that it’s a “gift.” But I do know that now that I’ve had to think about life and death and health and happiness, the important things have been brought into sharper focus.

Here's what others are saying about health and happiness:
Cancer Bloggers Join Forces Again: Health and Happiness

Health and Happiness

Jar of Rocks

Afloat

One of the challenges of being a parent, for me, is always being "on." Even when I manage a weekend getaway with my husband or with friends, a part of me is still with my kids. My cell phone is never off, and I call to check in frequently.

It's hard to truly disconnect.

That's one reason I really treasure my annual kayaking trip in the San Juan Islands. I go with a group of smart, funny women (all moms, like me) and a gem of a guide, Sharmon. We camp on an uninhabited island, and spend 3 days hiking, paddling, and replenshing our souls. Cell phone service is spotty, at best. My family knows they won't be getting updates from me, and their stories and questions will have to wait until I'm back on terra firma.

When we launch our boats at the start of the trip, I feel like I can leave my life on shore. There is something elemental about being afloat, surrounded by a bigger world. And kayaks are the perfect vessel. I am not on the water, I'm in it. I am of it.

June approaches - just a little over a month and I'll be dipping my paddle into the cool water. I like knowing that I'll be reaching my destination under my own power, and that's the only way I'll get home again. It reminds me that I can do anything I set out to do. Especially when I'm in the company of strong women.

The cure for anything is salt water - sweat, tears, or the sea.
~Isak Dinesen

Grief

So, here’s the thing about grief. It turns out that it’s not the kind of thing that flips on, like a switch, and runs its course until you’re done with it. You don’t hunker down in a dark room with a box of Kleenex until you can cry no more, then emerge when you’re ready to move on. It turns out that grief becomes a part of you, that you wear it – though grief is not like a coat you can shed.

My mom died last June. Strangely, and though neither she nor I wanted it to end up this way, this has become one of the most important things about me. She would be so mad to know that I’m still so focused on this, but there it is.

Her health was my full-time job for nearly a year – it consumed me. I read everything I could find about pancreatic cancer, chemotherapy, biological therapies, clinical trials. I cooked, in vain, trying to find things she could eat, trying to give her strength. I called daily to tell her jokes and bash Bush, knowing that even though I couldn’t fix the cancer, I could at least put a smile on her face. For eight months I went through the motions in my own life while my mind and my heart were with my mom.

It was a lot. More than a person should have to deal with, but people do it, all the time. I thought about joining a support group, getting therapy, getting medicated. The medication helped a little, the therapy not so much.

What helped the most was getting outside. I found a place near my mom’s home on Whidbey Island called Earth Sanctuary. How can I describe this place? It is part nature preserve, part spiritual sculpture garden. It has hiking trails and prayer wheels, ponds and stone circles. Sometimes I took my mom there to just sit and meditate. Once I took my brother – I knew he needed to cry, and the Earth Sanctuary is a good place to release whatever is stuck inside. But mostly I just went there alone. I got in the habit of stopping there on my way to or from my mom’s house, to quell the fear and anxiety. An hour in those woods quieted my mind like nothing else could. I would leave with a feeling of strength, knowing that I could keep going.

And then she died. We knew she was going to die. It wasn’t a surprise, since she’d chosen to end treatment. She wasn’t scared. She was at her home, which was overflowing with friends and family. Her garden was, as she would say, “a riot of color.” She ate peas that she had planted in the spring. She nibbled chocolate from the insanely good candy store in Langley. She watched the birds – hundreds of them- that visited her garden daily, as if to see her off. And she slept, more and more, until she didn’t wake up at all. It was, people tell me, a “good” death.

It’s been nearly a year. To say that I miss my mom doesn’t even begin to touch what I’m feeling. I am bereft. I carry my grief with me, and it’s so strong sometimes that I wonder why people can’t smell it on me.

At other times, I forget, and it lurks beneath the surface, only to seep out, as if through my pores, at unexpected moments. I will be driving my son to school or washing the dishes when it starts to rise up inside me, tears leaking from my eyes. I’ll be suddenly short of breath, unable to speak. Sometimes it is so heavy that I am amazed that I can stand upright. Now I know what people mean when they say they’re paralyzed with some emotion.

I don’t really know how to do this grieving thing. There’s no instruction manual – no preparation, like Lamaze classes, though a death changes your life as much as a birth does. I am doing the only thing I know how to do: I’m living each day, as I promised my mom I would, with joy where I can find it. When the sadness rises up, I give myself to it. And when it’s more than I can bear, I go outside. Not to escape the grief, but to be in it, in peace.

At my mom’s memorial service, I gave out a poem by Wendell Berry called “The Peace of Wild Things.”

When despair for the world grows in me
And I wake in the night at the least sound
In fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
Who do not tax their lives with forethought
Of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
Waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.


That’s what I’m trying to do. When I’m overcome, I try to remember to rest in the grace of the world. I go to the Earth Sanctuary and I walk the labyrinth and I sit in the dolmen. I try to share my grief with the earth (as hokey and new-agey as that sounds), because it’s really too much for one person. I suppose religious people might “let go and let God,” or Allah or whoever. But for me a walk in the woods is as close to God as I’ve gotten.

I don’t know if I will always feel this way. I know that this experience has changed me, shaped me. I hope that at some point it won’t be so raw, that the tears won’t be so quick. But when the tears do come, at least I’ll know where to go.

A little potty talk

I thought my potty training days were over once my two sons were out of diapers. Boy, was I wrong.

I don’t know if I missed it on the first go-round, or what, but I find myself having to re-train my kids, this time in “potty manners.” As the only female in the house, it’s an uphill battle. Close the door. Flush. Close the lid. Raise the seat. No, raise it, then put it down and close the lid when you’re done. And don’t forget to flush. And wash your hands. Did you wash your hands?

My kids are now 5 and 8. It has been years since I changed a diaper. But I’m thinking of going back to my tried & true tricks of encouragement to get my boys to work on their aim. Cheerios as targets in the toilet, perhaps. A treat for remembering to put the lid down. Maybe a quarter every time they manage to use the bathroom without spraying the walls.

I have brothers. I thought I was prepared for this. But it still annoys me when I go into their bathroom and sit on a wet (ick!!) seat. So I’m back to potty training.

Dirt

I wrote this piece for a nonfiction writing class I took at UW, taught by Jeanne Sather.
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I can trace the story of my life through the dirt.

From the swampy rich soil of my childhood home in Virginia to the red earth of Kenya to the clay that comprises my backyard now, dirt provides clues to where I’ve been and where I am now.

When I was younger, it was the dirt that clung to my hiking boots that told the stories. Those boots picked up ancient dirt all over Europe and carried me across the United States.

These days my hiking boots collect dust, while the dirt I sweep off the floors of my home that offers a look at what’s going on in my life.

I swept up sawdust and wiped away bicycle grease when my husband was building his bike shop. And there’s no telling how much drywall dust has clogged my vacuum as we’ve remodeled our house over the past 10 years.

When my two little boys were toddlers, I’d find Cheerios and crushed Goldfish crackers scattered across the floor or tucked into couch cushions. Later it was petrified nuggets of Play-Doh and evidence of abandoned art projects.

I can still judge the success of a day at school by how much sandbox sand gets tracked in to the house. When my sons come home clean, I worry.

Until this year I could count on finding little pods of soft white fur strewn around the house. Now my little dog Daisy is shedding up in Dog Heaven, leaving it for someone else to find.

These days I’m more likely to come across pebbles from my 5-year-old’s rock collection or muddy soccer cleat prints embedded with bits of grass. The sheer volume of dirt seems to have increased exponentially now that my kids are old enough to travel as a pack with the rest of the neighborhood boys. I just shake my head as dozens of muddy feet file in at a time.

I can’t even begin to imagine what sort of dirt and detritus will find its way into my house in the coming years. If only reading my dustpan were more like reading tea leaves, providing insight into the future instead of evidence of where we’ve been.