The Vortexiverse: A Journal of Vicarious Living

The Other Side of the Brick Wall

2011-02-17T13:04:00.000-08:00

Faithful Vortexians:

Last summer, after spending a lot of money and time in pursuing publication, I ran into a brick wall with traditional publishing and decided to go the route of self-publishing.

I'm glad I did.

In December, my debut novel "Bianca's Vineyard" was launched and life has not been the same since. It was truly a herculean effort, but reviews have been great and I've already ordered a second shipment of books.

Many are asking me if there will be a sequel. Yes, and I am starting to work on it.

I'm not sure what that means for The Vortexiverse yet. Obviously, this is the first time I've had the opportunity to post since the chaos of self-publishing began. I was caught up in a cyclone of my own making!

So, my apologies for the silence of the last few months. As for the future of The Vortexiverse; I see it as continuing to be an outlet for personal tales and anecdotes. There are some good ones!

As always, I love to hear from you and what you think.

To check out my new author's website, and details about "Bianca's Vineyard," go to www.teresaneumann.com

The print book is available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Powell's Books as well as other retailers around the world. It is also available on Kindle and Nook. If you read it, and like it, do shoot a review Amazon's way, would you?

In the meantime, blessings and peace to you!

Never Compromise Who You Are by Conforming to What Others Want You to Be

2010-07-14T13:09:00.000-07:00

THE VORTEXIAN

A Journal of Vicarious Living

Travels with Teresa

Never Compromise Who You Are by Conforming to What Others Want You to Be

(True to Yourself, Vortexia) -- Summertime is the season of weddings; a roller-coaster ride of bridal showers, rehearsal dinners and wedding ceremonies. For those deeply invested in these glorious occasions, it also elicits a wealth of emotions. Brides-to-be and their mothers find out what panic attacks really are. Fathers-of-the-Bride grapple with the reality that they will no longer be their daughter’s “first-stop” counselor on issues they prided themselves being experts on.

The loneliness that seeps into a home on the heels of a child’s marriage, whether that child was living at home before marrying or not, is awful. Children will come back and visit, but it will be with spouses who have pre-emptive needs and desires. Of course, this barely tolerable situation for parents is mitigated by the future promise of grandchildren.

Of these things I am sure, because my daughter is getting married this month.

At her bridal shower recently, I found myself brain-dead when asked to jot down a “word of wisdom” for the bride in a little notebook being passed around. I kicked myself later. It’s not that we hadn’t had many “mother-daughter” talks about marriage, discussions that included the importance of a strong Christian faith. Still, I thought, “How could I not have come up with something to write in that book for her?”

A few hours later, alone in my car, the pre-wedding fog in my mind parted – ever so briefly – to reveal a visual banner that read: Never Compromise Who You Are by Conforming to What Others Want You to Be. Convinced it was divinely inspired, I shared it with my daughter who initially read into it all the things it was not intended to mean.

So, dear reader, I will clarify the phrase with you as well.

She thought it was some feminist manifesto, “I am Woman, Hear Me Roar” type of thing. Hardly the case, I told her. The adage works both ways; it applies to men and women. Then, she thought it I meant it as a blanket excuse for any kind of addiction, perversion or other besetting sin in a spouse. No, again; nor does the statement include the person of Jesus Christ, with whom we want to be conformed to.

Simply put, “who you are” is who – at your core – God wants you, and me, to be. Our “identity” includes all the unique qualities that make up our personalities; the positive, and even neutral, characteristics we were born with.

Obviously, some personality traits can be irritating or annoying to others. It’s sad how trivial some of them really are, such as the way someone talks or laughs, or the music they like to listen to, or the fact that they absolutely love animals or sports or old movies, etc. Again, I’m not talking about extremes (i.e. the husband who ignores his wife every football season or the wife who favors pets over her husband). I’m referring to harmless personal attributes, innocent likes and dislikes, mannerisms that have nothing to do with one’s core character.

It’s one thing to expect a spouse to change a truly bad habit that is adversely affecting a relationship. It’s entirely another to try to change someone else’s identity. I’ve seen far too many marriages implode because of it.

For example, berating a spouse who plods along in life more slowly than you would prefer is like trying to make an Arabian racehorse out of a Clydesdale. Clydesdales are beautiful as they are and function exactly as they were meant to. Conversely, constantly chiding an effusive, outgoing partner in the hope of changing them into an emotionless slug will only serve to suffocate them. Far better to be appreciative, respectful and, yes, even long-suffering with loved ones whose minor quirks and idiosyncrasies drive us half-mad sometimes. After all, treating others as they would treat us benefits all involved, does it not?

It may be easier said than done, but weddings can be a timely reminder that viewing spouses through God’s lens can go a long way in making marriages happy and durable.

Honoring Dads: Warts and All

2010-06-17T11:17:00.000-07:00

(Imperfection, Vortexia) – Most men are deserving of the honor due them as fathers, but doing so is sometimes easier said than done. Problems can arise when mothers of children are in conflict with the father, or parents blow trivial problems in their relationship out of proportion. I know, because it’s almost Father’s Day and I am just now reconciling my emotions with my love for my husband.

It began with the weather.

I have very few pet peeves, just a couple actually, and I can honestly say I have developed patience for them over the years. But, when it comes to negativity, all bets are off. Whining, belly-aching, call it what you will, being in the company of naysayers is torture for me.

I’m not talking about the occasional venting session with close friends; if it’s of extremely short duration and has a clear beginning and end with some sort of resolution. That, I can handle. Nor am I referring to a one-time open and honest discussion with someone borne of professional or relational necessity. I’m speaking of being immersed in a culture of chronic complaining. It ignites my fight-or-flight hormones. My blood pressure rises. I feel chained, forced to drink poison while listening to a chorus of nails on a chalkboard, all at the same time.

I blame part of this aversion on my stoic Midwest childhood. My parents, farmers’ stock who soldiered their way through the Depression, never griped and I wasn’t allowed to either. If I complained about being bored, I found myself scrubbing floors and cleaning toilets. If I was caught saying something nasty about someone, I was subjected to a lecture on not saying anything if I couldn’t say something good about someone. If I dared to grumble about food served to me I was summarily banished to bed with an empty stomach. After all, beggars can’t be choosy; grin and bear it.

My husband, however, had an entirely different childhood. Cloaked in humor and exacerbated by perfectionism, complaining was elevated to an art-form in his home. Because his highly cynical father never forgot the victimization he suffered during the Depression, my husband’s world-view was colored by would-have’s, should-have’s and if-only’s. The result often manifested in the grass looking greener on the other side of the fence.

I and my husband – definitely my “soulmate” if there is such a thing -- share many things in common; faith, family, friends, and a long, fulfilling, exciting history together. All things considered, we are a perfect fit except for one – make that two or three – things. He is a pessimist (he would use the word “realist”) and I am an optimist (he would use the word fantasist). He loves to swim and relax in the sun. The sun is not my friend and I don’t swim. He is an engineer who isn’t passionate about reading or writing. I am a bookworm; writing is my profession.

Are we the only couple who wrestle with these issues?

Our differences got out of control a few months ago when Oregon experienced one of its worst springs in history. Northwest winters are cloudy, rainy and cool (as opposed to cloudy, snowy and freezing in the other areas of the country, I remind my husband), but springtime is typically a mix of lessening showers, increasing warmth, and fabulous rainbows. Summers in Oregon are paradisiacal; generally dry and hot with blessedly cool evenings. This spring, however, consisted of nearly three straight months of unseasonably cool temperatures, record-breaking rains, and leaden skies. Newbie Oregonians, particularly California transplants who are spoiled by some of the most perfect weather in the entire world, made like the Israelites in the desert, crying that they wanted to go back to “Egypt” -- wherever that might be.

My husband complained incessantly. I grew to dread the start of each new day, not because of the weather, but because I knew – and this is no exaggeration – that I would be subjected to an endless litany of meteorological facts and statistics comparing Oregon’s weather to Hawaii, and countless threats of selling our house and moving thousands of miles away from our children just to have sunshine in the wintertime. All of this whining was accompanied with theatrical sighs and unhealthy doses of feigned morosity. I turned into a shrew.

It became a great source of contention between us.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I appreciate a sunny day as much as the next guy. Who hasn’t dreamed of vacationing in Hawaii or the Caribbean in the dead of winter? But the fact is, weather doesn’t dictate my state of mind or control my emotions. When I “see” Oregon, I don’t see rain. I see beautiful swirling fogs, myriad hues of green, dense primeval forests, magnificent mountains and a spectacular coastline. Apparently, that makes me a freak. Most Americans evidently live their lives tethered to the sun. Since there are few countries on earth where citizens have the luxury of arm-chair quarterbacking situations they have absolutely no control over, I fear it might be true that I am the “odd man” out.

Still, I doubt Dalits in Calcutta obsess over how many cloudy days they have in a year, just as I’m sure the majority of Africans don’t entertain relocating to a place where they will be able to enjoy more sunshine. Any day they’re alive is a beautiful day to them.

We are incredibly blessed and not just a little bit spoiled.

For me (and my husband actually came up with this motto when we moved here) Oregon is our “Promised Land.” Undeniably, God Himself led us here like Abraham and Sarah, even though we weren’t aware of it at the time. This is where I rededicated my life to Christ, became a mother, raised my children and built a home. And that is the key, at least for me. This is my home. It’s not just four walls and a roof that can be bought and sold on a whim. God pointed to this place on the map, and “Pow!” in went my stake. To date, He has not directed us anywhere else.

The outcome of all this is…you ask? Well, we didn’t kill each other and we’re still happily married. Our sparring is part of the Tango that is our dance. It’s mid-June and after announcing that Oregon experienced the wettest June in it’s history already, the weatherman is promising warmer, sunnier days. We’ve had a few intermittent ones already; enough to placate my husband…for now.

The mountain between us shrunk back down into a mole hill, and with Father’s Day looming, I am reminded of just how good and wonderful my husband is, how much he is loved by his children, and how faithful, hardworking and steady he is. It's a good thing, Father's Day. If we lay all the small stuff aside and focus on the man who is the father, we can regain our perspective.

At least I learned something: Mountains are not insurmountable.

Surviving Motherhoods' Many Incarnations

2010-05-06T12:05:00.000-07:00

(Mamatopia, Vortexia) -- I am entering a new phase of motherhood; one I’m not entirely familiar with yet, but which evidently comes with the territory when one reaches a certain stage of life. For me, that stage is the upcoming marriage of my youngest child.

Motherhood, I have learned, goes something like this. When children are:

Newborn to Age Five: “Mother” means Food and Love. The simplicity of our role as mothers of infants, in retrospect, is staggering. But as children reach the age of two or three, we are gob-smacked with our first reality check: They aren’t always the angels we assumed they were.

Yes, our children still adore us, but they can turn monstrous at the drop of a hat, screaming horrid epithets when they don’t get their way. As we bask in the false notion that their adulation of us will last forever, the title Disciplinarian is added to our job-description.

Five to Ten Years-of Age: Our moniker is now synonymous with “Slave.” It’s difficult to determine when, and why, our children’s perception of us changes, but school most definitely has something to do with it. Their peers have become the center of their egocentric little universe. We, still trusting in our indispensability, cling blindly to the remnants of their need for us, ignoring the alien creature inside of them raring to hatch. If only we knew what lay ahead, we might just decide to sell everything and move to Antarctica. There, at least, there would be fewer casualties from their soon-to-be uncontrollable hormones.

Pre-Teens and Teens: Seemingly overnight, we are "The Enemy.” Unprepared for this demonization, we hit the panic button, yet no matter how hard we kick against the goads, we are sucked into the black hole of teenage hormonal hell. Our children are embarrassed by our very existence. They are mortified to be seen with us in public to the point of pretending they don’t know us. Everything is our fault. In their eyes, we are domineering harridans; stupid, old-fashioned, irrelevant road blocks to their future. On our worst days, we imagine our reflection in the mirror verifies their opinion of us. It’s flat out gruesome. Where has the time gone? What’s happened to our babies? Who ARE we?

Young Adults: If we survived our children’s teen years, the name “mother” may now mean “Friend…sort of, kind of… but not really.” This is a nebulous time of life for mother and child, at best. Neither one is quite sure how they arrived at this ceasefire -- this unverbalized truce -- but all parties breathe a sigh of relief that the worst is, hopefully, behind them. We see our children in a new, more mature light. And they see us as maybe having some brains after all. Time to leave Antarctica and come back home.

Married Adults: The rewards of motherhood take on new meaning here. We hear our name spoken with a semblance of admiration, if not reverence, as if “mom” means “Dear Trusted, Wise One Who Never Gave Up On Me.” The phone calls become more frequent (depending on if the child is a son or a daughter) asking for recipes or advice or just to talk. The restoration of our identity as mothers coming full-circle bringing immeasurable satisfaction. It’s actually possible to smile at our gray hair and wrinkles in the mirror because it no longer represents loss; it reflects triumph.

This is the stage of motherhood I am in now; a parent to married adults. I know nothing of future incarnations -- that of grandmother, or great-grandmother – but I am convinced it will be wonderful despite the predictable speed bumps along the way. And, though I could hear you chuckling with me during this satirical journey through the incarnations of motherhood – and I know you realize the joys and privilege of motherhood are worth every sacrifice -- we mothers share a common bond: We love our children with a love that passes all understanding.

So, to all you mothers (and mother’s-to-be someday) I leave you this for Mother's Day: be strong, be persistent, and be blessed. You are beloved whether or not you know it or feel it. Because when it's all said and done, really, your name is: “You Can Do It; All Things Are Possible With God!”

Dave's First Massage; A Gaffe Riddled Milestone

2010-04-30T17:10:00.001-07:00

(Gaffes Galore, Vortexia) -- By his own admission, my husband Dave has no tact. He’s a wonderful man – talented, warm, and gregarious – but his off-the-cuff comments have made for many, shall we say, “memorable” moments. Usually his slips-of-the tongue are laughable and innocent enough. Sometimes, however, they are mortifying.

While everyone else might be gob smacked by his gaffes, Dave is completely unfazed. In his eyes, he is simply being plain-spoken, straight-forward. I suppose there is an element of virtue to being forth-right. After all, our daughter Rachel says she knows which parent to go to when she wants an honest personal assessment.

It isn’t me.

Rachel, who is very much like her father, recently took the bold step of getting us a gift certificate for a double massage at the Oregon Gardens Resort. It was her way of nudging him into planning something special for our wedding anniversary. Having had several massages in the past, I was greatly appreciative. But Dave, having never had a massage before, was apprehensive.

“Oh, trust me, you’ll love it dad,” Rachel gushed, after he muttered something about how weird it would be to get a massage. “You and mom should do something different for your anniversary this year.”

Feeling the pressure from me -- and now Rachel --for the first time in our marriage, Dave planned a weekend getaway for us. I knew it wasn’t easy for him to put it together, what with the stress of his job and other commitments. I was elated and so proud of him.

We spent the first night of our Anniversary weekend at the Oregon Gardens. Dave had made reservations to have our massage at 5:00 with dinner following at 7:00.

“I’m going to wear my golf shorts,” he informed me, as we prepared to head down to the spa. “I refuse to be naked when I get a massage.”

“What? You don’t have to strip down,” I assured him, humored by his naïveté. “There’s nothing to be nervous about.”

Grudgingly, he complied.

When we arrived at the spa, two uniform-clad women met us, ushering us to a dressing room where they gave us luxurious robes and told us to strip down to whatever we were comfortable with.

“Whatever we’re comfortable with!” scoffed Dave, his face full of foreboding. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

We were then issued slippers and escorted to a waiting room where a woman who had just received a massage was being seated.

“Drink this water,” her masseuse instructed, handing her a bottle. “Go ahead and relax here as long as you want, and when you’re ready you can get dressed.”

The woman, who was in her 60’s, snuggled into her seat, pulled her bathrobe collar up around her neck, tilted her head back and sighed, “That was wonderful.” Then, she rolled her head to one side, opened her eyes, and looked at us. Laughing, she declared, “I look a mess, but I really don’t care.”

Well, her tousled hair did look like she’d just had electric shock therapy. It stood nearly straight on end. Dave anxiously touched the back of his head, no doubt wondering what his hair would like before the hour was over. I returned the woman’s smile and said, “Actually, you look like you’re completely relaxed.”

“Oh, I am,” she replied, running her fingers through her hair. “You know, my favorite part of the massage was when she worked on my scalp.”

She lowered her gaze to the floor near Dave’s slippers and her smile widened. “You can stop tapping your feet,” she said to him. “I take it you’ve never had a massage before?”

Body language. She had read right through him.

Dave stiffened and grunted something in response just as another woman entered the room and sat down. Her face was flushed, her hair wild. She, too, nestled down into her seat and sighed.

“We’re sisters,” they explained to us, noting they met once or twice a year in a location halfway between Seattle and Eugene to do something special together. They both looked at Dave and giggled knowingly.

“Mr. & Mrs. Neumann, you can come with us now.” Our crisp, very professional masseuses guided us to the spa room where two side-by-side massage tables awaited us. They went through their procedures with us, informing us that after they asked us some questions, they would leave. We were to disrobe and lie face-down on the tables with a blanket covering us before they came back in to begin the massage.

‘Is there any part of your body you don’t want touched during the massage?” my masseuse asked me before excusing herself.

“I’d like you to work on my neck, shoulders and upper back,” I said. “That’s where all my tension settles in.” I assumed Dave would take the cue and tell his masseuse what area he needed work on.

Dave’s masseuse asked him the same question. “Is there any part of your body you don’t want touched during your massage?”

In all seriousness, he replied, “My groin area.”

Her eyes widened. I’m sure she was repressing her shock. After all, who in the world would be so unnecessarily blunt? “Why, of course!” she blustered.

Left alone to climb beneath our respective blankets, I hissed, “I can’t believe you really said that, Dave! These are professional masseuses; what are you thinking!?”

“It’s a reasonable request. She asked!”

I knew the only reason Dave was having a massage with me was because our daughter had paid for it. I also knew he was nervous because he had never been in a spa before. But I was determined to enjoy my message, so after the masseuses returned, I put his gaucherie out of my mind and tuned him out.

Less than two minutes into our massage, Dave said, “Teresa! Is she working on your back?”

No reply.

A moment later: “Teresa! This really feels good, doesn’t it?”

No reply.

An hour later, peeling ourselves off the massage table, I looked at Dave. His hair was a mess. His eyes had a far-away look in them. We didn’t say anything as we were escorted into the waiting room to drink some water and regroup. One other man sat in the room, waiting for his massage. I think it might have been his first time, because he looked a little….nervous.

I looked at Dave and he looked at me, smiling.

2010-04-30T17:10:00.000-07:00

It’s the Gifting, Not the Gadgets, That Produce Miracles in Life

2010-03-19T19:20:00.000-07:00

(Mom's Kitchen, Vortexia) -- A luthier once told me that the ability of Russian violinists to perform with excellence on woefully inferior instruments was a testament to their legendary greatness. I know it to be true, because I recall a former violin teacher from the Ukraine showing me photographs of her family playing their violins at funerals held outdoors in sub-freezing temperatures; an environment guaranteed to render a violin nearly useless. They knew it was the spirit behind the fingers, not the instrument itself, that could made their music what it was. That teacher, and her daughter, played so exquisitely on their non-descript violins, I could only marvel at it.

In coming back to Iowa to be with my ailing father (who still lives in the same house I grew up in many decades ago), I discovered a domestic application to that phenomenon. I found it in the kitchen.

My mother was, by any definition, a great cook. Before Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooling hit America, my mother was putting butter and half-and-half on our oatmeal and making us home-made hot chocolate using melted dark chocolate, vanilla, sugar and cream. (Note: Did I say we were a family of ten? Six girls and two boys in a three-bedroom, one-bath house? And, yes, we were Catholic.) Perhaps her moxie was the result of being raised in a Depression-Era orphanage or maybe it was from marrying into a family of farmers and dairy producers. Regardless, mom made everything from scratch; breads, caramel rolls, pies, cakes, and cookies. Her culinary mastery wasn’t limited to sweets either. The best, most succulent meats, casseroles, soups and salads I’ve ever tasted have come from my mother’s kitchen.

You could say she personified Babette in Babette’s Feast. Like Babette, she could take a pot of water and a pound of meat and make it taste like heaven. Since her passing on April 8, 2006, those who knew her still rave about her cooking. Preparing food was her love medium, and to this day I can taste her love for me.

Here, back home in her Iowa kitchen, unchanged since she died, I am reminded that my mother set a bar that is personally unattainable. This revelation came when I opened the cupboard to retrieve a pan to cook dinner for my father. I panicked. There were no copper-bottomed, stainless steel skillets or state-of-the-art, non-stick cookware to choose from. No sturdy, shiny cooking utensils; no superfluous gizmos or gadgets. No Kitchen Aid mixer or food processors, definitely staples in my own scullery. Mom cooked with the cheapest accoutrements, with no one -- not a mother, or even the ubiquitous Food Network -- to guide her. Her accomplishments were sheer gifting.

As I prepared my father’s dinner that night using a battered old Teflon frying pan and a chewed-up plastic spatula, I wondered how I could possibly produce an edible meal with such poor quality cookware. Even following all of my mother’s recipes to a “T,” and relying heavily on modern gadgetries, my cooking never turns out as good as hers. Never. But, to my utter amazement, dinner turned out delicious. It was a miracle – it was as though it wouldn’t have mattered what I made. Somehow, I thought, whatever I prepare in my mom’s kitchen will be good.

I will return home having learned the metaphorical lesson; a lesson that brings me hope. Gifting needs no gadgetry to bloom. It is what it is. Use it, be confident in it, and it will blossom. Whether the gift is cooking, painting, writing, dancing, building, finances, nursing, teaching, praying, etc., if it is put into use, even without the trappings we think we need to excel, it will manifest.

After all, it’s not the instrument that produces excellence, it’s the Spirit within.

PART TWO: The Conversation I Had With My Kidney

2010-02-01T21:10:00.000-08:00

The Dynamics of Dread, the Power of Pain, and the Conversation I Had With My Kidney

Part One

(Out of the Blue, Vortexia) -- My New Year’s resolution for 2010 was that life would return to “normal” after a year of sickness and death in my husband’s family. But, on January 4 – having never experienced a serious illness in my life -- I discovered blood in my urine and knew with sobering certainty that my life would be anything but normal for awhile; maybe forever.

“Tests show no sign of infection,” my doctor announced. “Even though you’re not experiencing any pain, I’m ordering an ultrasound to check for kidney stones.”

Two days later, he called back. “Well, the good news is the ultrasound showed no stones in your kidneys. The bad news is, we need to take a different test to see the inside of your bladder. I’m referring you to an urologist.”

Having done my homework on the Internet, I knew that heavy bleeding without pain was symptomatic of bladder cancer; ergo, the thought of waiting two more weeks to have the next test was unbearable. A dear friend who “happened” to work for a premier urological medical group came to my rescue. He set up an appointment for me with a first-rate urologist immediately. Miracle Number One.

I know, it’s futile to worry, but telling someone being tested for cancer not to worry is like telling a dog not to cower from fireworks on the 4^th of July. I succumbed to an endless mental litany of “what-if’s” and “if-only’s”: What if I do have cancer? Maybe that’s why God arranged for me to get seen so quickly. What if it’s advanced? Untreatable? If only I had gone to the doctor sooner. If only I had watched my diet more. If only I hadn’t snapped at my husband the other day…

Later, listening to my urologist tell me the test on my bladder was negative for cancer, I scolded myself. Silly girl.

“See?” my husband beamed. “You’re going to be just fine.”

The urologist, however, wasn’t so convinced. “Something is causing the bleeding,” he said, noting that during the test he had located the source. It was my left kidney. “I want you back in two days for a CAT-scan,” he ordered. “We need to get to the bottom of this.”

I should interject here that I am notoriously leery of being over-exposed to x-rays. When I told my eldest daughter, a medical professional, of my intent to cancel the CAT-scan appointment because I was sure everything was ok and the urologist was just over-reacting, she had a fit. “Don’t you dare cancel that appointment,” she shrilled. “That’s your old 'hippy-head' talking mom!”

I indulged her, grudgingly, but not without telling the technician who did the scan that I was in mourning because my “virginal kidneys were about to be violated.” A joke, of course.

The joke, as it turned out, was on me. A half-hour later, as my unsuspecting husband and I sat with the urologist in front of the computer displaying the first of my CAT-scan x-rays, we heard the dreaded words: “See this shadow here in your ureter….and this spot on your left kidney? I’m concerned. I’ll be honest with you, I’m afraid you could have a rare form of kidney and/or ureter cancer. There’s no way to know for sure unless we do a ureteroscopy. If it does turn out to be cancer, I think we may have caught it early enough to simply remove the kidney and avoid any chemo or radiation, but we need to schedule the procedure as soon as possible.”

On the way home I broke down and told my husband that my two greatest regrets in life – if I were to have cancer – were that I might not live to see my grandchildren and that I’d surely have to bless him to marry someone else. “You’re too young to be widowed for 30 years,” I choked, failing miserably at feigning both humor and courage.

He wouldn’t hear of it. I was being “premature” he cautioned. I was going to be “fine,” he said. Nevertheless, this pragmatic, type-A personality, former Girl Scout, was determined to be prepared for the worst. At the same time, I was equally determined to keep everything in perspective so as to prevent despair from swallowing me alive.

Rolling out the carpet of the mind; a typical reaction to fear, isn’t it? The length and breadth of life unfurls, expanding into eternity, revealing the stark sum of our past and the imminent sentence of our future existence. It’s an inescapable reality check; a virtual checklist of personal foibles and misappropriated affections. Why had I wasted so much of my life burdened with trivialities and spent so little time really living? Suddenly, I see my husband as unsurpassingly beautiful, perfect. My children are precious beyond belief. Nothing else matters.

The following day a 7.0 earthquake devastated Haiti. There’s perspective for you. Lying on the operating table, ready to go under general anesthesia, I told the surgeon and the anesthesiologist, “I can’t stop thinking of the poor Haitians trapped in buildings, suffering such unspeakable pain with no food, no water, no doctors, no medicine. I almost feel guilty being here.”

The next thing I knew, my husband was holding my hand telling me that my kidneys were perfectly healthy, that I was cancer free – Miracle Number Two --and that the doctor had found a small kidney stone in my left kidney and removed it.

The procedure effectively ended my fears of cancer, but gave birth to a week of excruciating pain unlike anything I had ever experienced. Of course, I couldn’t have known that then, sedated as I was, intoxicated with thankfulness for my clean bill of health.

If ignorance is bliss, I was blind, deliriously so, to what the future had in store for me.

Part Two

Searing Pain: Unnatural, suffocating, a ruthless exercise in faith and self-control. If fear expands one’s scope, pain retracts it, reeling in the panoply of life so that nothing exists but the pain itself. Time stops; there is no past, no future. All that is left, all that exists, is the brutal reality of “now.” Worse yet, no amount of reasoning, comfort, cajoling, distractions, or positive thinking can alleviate it. In essence, nothing – absolutely nothing -- matters anymore but the numb hope that the pain will go away and never return.

You think, perhaps, that I’m referring to the pain of torture, of childbirth, or of a broken bone, or a mortal wound of some sort. No, I refer to the pain of passing a kidney stone.

During my surgery the doctor had to insert a stent through my bladder and ureter and into my kidney. It was necessary, he told me, to keep the kidney draining correctly for awhile. It was tolerably painful (with pain medication), and after four days of immobility and walking about like Quasimodo, I was primed to have it removed. Removing the stent was a simple matter, the urologist assured me. His staff agreed that I would feel great immediately and that I would “bounce right back” to health.

Well, I left his office that morning in excruciating pain, assuming it would subside during the hour-long drive back home. A half-hour into our drive, writhing in pain, I shouted at my husband to pull off the interstate. Nauseous, light-headed, breathing shallowly, my heart racing, there was no position I could get into that would lessen the pain. Finally, thanks to my husband’s wisdom and sensitivity, we somehow made it home.

Shortly thereafter, my husband broke the news to me – hesitantly, as though I’d bite his head off -- after he talked to the doctor’s nurse on the phone. “She says you must be one of the very few who react this way when a stent is removed,” he said. “Your ureter is going through spasms as though it’s passing a stone, even though there’s not one there. She says you’re in for a rough 24 hours and after that it will get better.”

There are times you don’t want to stand out from the crowd, when you want to be like everyone else. Unfortunately, this was one of the them.

I spent the next 24-hours having “stoneless” kidney attacks every five hours. The pain meds the doctor had prescribed didn’t even begin to touch the pain. When the attacks continued after 24-hours the nurse told my husband that “sometimes they can last longer; up to five days.”

Are you kidding me?

They prescribed an anti-spasmodic medication to control the spasms, instructing me to take them along with the strong pain medication I was still on. They provided no relief whatsoever. The screaming pain brought me to my knees -- unbearable, incapacitating. It was like being stabbed in the kidney over-and-over every two or three seconds for up to an hour at a time. During an attack, I couldn’t talk, move, be touched, or listen to anything. All I could do was focus on enduring and mastering the pain.

I began to despair. People were praying for me, I knew, but the peace I felt when I wasn’t in pain fled the moment the attacks started, and each one progressively left me weakened physically and mentally. I felt like a Russian wooden nesting doll, as though the real me was shrinking inside of myself…as though I was looking at myself from the inside out. As a result, I began relating to the pain in an almost clinical way. It would start as a dull ache in my left kidney and go from 0-10 (10 being unbearable pain) in five minutes, where it would remain for 30-minutes or so, and then begin to fade at varying rates depending on my ability to relax.

Here’s where it got dicey. If the pain didn’t recede to an absolute 0, the spasms would start up again and I’d go through the cycle all over. It took every ounce of strength and concentration for me to subdue the pain at that point. I knew I had reached a 0 level of pain when I was either, 1) so relaxed I couldn’t feel the left side of my body or, 2) I fell asleep.

On the third day, during another attack, my despair turned to desperation. The peak had passed, but I was still struggling at about a stage 2 level of pain. I tried to think of sounds that I found calming and immediately thought of the Italian language; it has always had a soothing effect on me. As I tried to remember waking up in Italy to the voices of Italians in the street, a voice inside my head said, “Your prayer language has the same effect on you, you know.”

It was a eureka moment for me, and as I began to breath the tongues of angels my pain vanished. Just like that.

I had prayed that would be my last attack, but still they continued. The following evening I suffered two back-to-back. Writhing in agony, I suddenly envisioned the film The Passion of the Christ and my heart broke with the most rudimentary understanding of what a battle Jesus must have been engaged in with His pain. How could He carry on a conversation with the thieves on the cross? How could He care about His friends and family or anyone else for that matter, while he hung there on the cross?

I was so wasted at that point I couldn’t concentrate enough to even pray anymore. Then out of nowhere I had a mental picture of our new kitten, Bo. Spoilt rotten, she had kept us up several nights whining and crying, scratching incessantly at the door because she wanted to be fed and coddled. Delirious with pain, I placed my hand on my back over my contracting kidney/ureter and began to speak to it.

“Kidney,” I said, “I get it. You’re mad. You’re throwing a fit because you’ve been messed with. You just want to be held. Well, here. I’ll massage you until you calm down.”

“It’s pointless for you to continue like this,” I continued. “You’re stuck with me and I’m stuck with you. We’re in this together, like it or not, and as long as you’re not happy nobody’s happy. So go ahead and keep throwing a fit because you’re just hurting yourself.”

Immediately, the pain began to subside. I kept rubbing my back, speaking to my kidney until I felt the spasms stop. I was too exhausted to marvel – or even care -- at what had just happened. It had been the worst attack yet and had left me feeling nearly paralyzed on my left side. I even wondered for awhile if I had suffered a stroke during it. Desperate times had called for desperate measures.

It was my last attack. Miracle Number Three.

As I write this, a week later, I am a different person. Pain, and facing the inevitability of death in a visceral way, have left me enormously grateful. Grateful, because unlike thousands of others every day, I was spared a positive test result for cancer. Though I dodged the bullet, I was left with a fresh reminder of my mortality. And the next time I’m waiting in an emergency room or hospital lab, surrounded by bedraggled, unkempt people who look distant or worried, I won’t entertain smug thoughts of how I would never go out in public wearing my pajamas and slippers with my hair uncombed because, indeed, I would have during one of my attacks. Instead, my heart will break for them. Miracle Number Four...the greatest miracle of all.

The Dynamics of Dread, the Power of Pain, and the Conversation I Had With My Kidney

2010-01-29T14:32:00.000-08:00

The Dynamics of Dread, the Power of Pain, and the Conversation I Had With My Kidney

Part One

“Tests show no sign of infection,” my doctor announced. “Even though you’re not experiencing any pain, I’m ordering an ultrasound to check for kidney stones.”

Having done my homework on the Internet, I knew that heavy bleeding without pain was symptomatic of bladder cancer, ergo, the thought of waiting two more weeks to have the next test was unbearable. A dear friend who “happened” to work for a premier urological medical group came to my rescue. He set up an appointment for me with a first-rate urologist immediately; not something that would have been possible under socialized healthcare. Miracle Number One.

Later, listening to my urologist tell me the test on my bladder was negative for cancer, I scolded myself. Silly girl.

“See?” my husband beamed. “You’re going to be just fine.”

I indulged her, grudgingly, but not without telling the technician who did the scan that I was in mourning because my “virginal kidneys were about to be violated.” A joke, of course.

On the way home I broke down and told my husband that my two greatest regrets in life – if I were to have cancer – were that I might not live to see my grandchildren and that I’d have to bless him to marry someone else. “You’re too young to be widowed for 30 years,” I choked, failing miserably at feigning both humor and courage.

If ignorance is bliss, I was blind, deliriously so, to what the future had in store for me.

Unsung Hero of the Month - DECEMBER 2009

2009-12-10T19:55:00.000-08:00

Unsung Hero of the Month - December

This month’s “Unsung Hero” title goes to a couple recommended to me by Emily Tedrow: Meet Scot and RyAnne Noss.

Scot is a “local boy,” born and raised in Oregon’s mid-Willamette Valley. I recall hearing of his integrity and solid character when he was still in his teens. As the saying goes, his reputation “went before him.” After graduating from high school, Scot volunteered with Youth With a Mission (YWAM) for one year before joining the U.S. Army. That alone speaks volumes for the kind of man Scot Noss is.

I could tell his story here, but words literally fail me and it wouldn’t do it, or him, justice. A recent PBS special on Scot and RyAnne says it all. Prepare to be undone by the sacrifices they have made for you and I, and for each other.

Scot and RyAnne, I salute you both. Directly, and indirectly, your lives inspire and greatly affect us. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Hulda, Elisabetta and Babe: The Senior Sisterhood

2009-12-04T19:29:00.000-08:00

Hulda, Elisabetta and Babe: The Senior Sisterhood

(Geezer Hood, Vortexia) – After a miraculous medical recovery, Grandma Babe is again enjoying the climes of independent living at her senior apartment complex. On her first day back to the group dining room her fellow residents actually applauded her return. Two of them in particular -- Hulda and Elisabetta – are women I secretly wish were my BFF’s.

Hulda, as her name implies, is a sturdy woman of Nordic or Germanic descent with a heart of gold. She limps along behind her walker with a smile soaked in sunshine, encouraging everyone she sees. She is the type of person you want to tuck in your purse and take home, like a puppy, for keeps.

“Oh, Babe!” she exclaimed, welcoming Grandma back into the fold. She leaned over her walker, and held Babe’s hand in hers. “We sure missed you around here. It’s so good to have you back again!”

Elisabetta, a gregarious Italian-American, exudes old-world charm and new-world vitality. Fairly tall for being in her 90’s, with perfect posture, olive skin, white hair, and a remarkable flair for fashion, she is at once both elegant and down-to-earth.

Whenever she greets Grandma, she cups her face in her hands and croons, “Ciao, Bella!”

True to her heritage, Elisabetta uses her hands to accentuate every sentence. One day, I noticed she stroked Grandma’s face about ten or fifteen times in the course of a five-minute conversation. Melting as I watched her, all I could think was, “Please, Elisabetta, speak Italian to me and stroke my face.” Oh, to be mothered again!

Of course, the male residents, not as verbose as the women, welcomed Babe back with a wink, a light slap on the back, or a clever pun meant to make her laugh. Since Grandma is still a tomboy at heart, they probably consider her “one of the guys” – something her female counterparts may, or may not, envy. I envy the camaraderie Babe has at her fingertips each day. She simply opens her door when she wants some social interaction and voila, there it is. It’s reassuring for her, and for us, to know she’s never alone.

Don’t get me wrong; senior living facilities aren’t perfect, though they would definitely make for an Emmy-winning sit-com. The same petty dramas exist there as in any living arrangement involving more than one person. There are the token grumps, hermits, and bellyachers. Gossips abound, and every once in awhile tempers flare. (Yes, elderly men are still capable of fist fights; apparently even miniscule levels of testosterone are deadly). One thing is certain, however; there’s always something happening at Babe’s place. Indeed, take age out of the equation and visiting a senior home feels just like walking into a high school. You can feel the buzz.

Despite the standard flaws in human nature present in senior communal living, it’s encouraging to see that the drive to love, comfort, protect, and share someone else’s burden, is equally tenacious. And realizing that sisterhood among women continues into old age is, well, one of the few comforting revelations I cling to as I’m dragged, kicking and screaming, down my own path of decrepitude.

Unsung Hero of the Month - November

2009-11-19T18:18:00.000-08:00

Unsung Hero of the Month

November’s unsung hero is Kathy Huston of Lebanon, Oregon. This humble, indefatigable woman is part of the reason Grandma Babe (my 92-year-old mother-in-law) is still alive.

Several weeks ago, Grandma was completely incapacitated with a mysterious intestinal bug. After a week of taking care of her, followed by a few days in the hospital and a few days in rehab, she was finally able to return to her apartment at a nearby senior-living facility. But almost immediately, she came down with a bladder infection. By then, she was so weak and mentally undone, she wouldn’t/couldn’t take her meds and wouldn’t/couldn’t get out of bed. She needed help with absolutely everything.

Exhausted, and at our wits’ end, my husband and I wondered what we could do to avoid having to transfer our normally vibrant grandmother into assisted living. Several different temporary nursing/caretaking services were cost prohibitive, and therefore, out of the question.

Then, I remembered Kathy telling me she loved visiting old people. When I asked her if she could check in on Grandma twice a day, early morning and late evening, for a week, she said “yes” without skipping a beat. Not only did Kathy faithfully do this for us, but she went above and beyond our needs by befriending Grandma, spending extra time with her. What an incredible difference it made for us, to be able to help Grandma during the day knowing Kathy was there every morning and night. And what a difference it made to Grandma, knowing there was an angel coming to see her every day and lift her spirits.

Through it all, I discovered that, in her private life, Kathy not only visits the elderly on a regular basis, but she volunteers in a score of other areas of the public sector also. I’ve known Kathy for years, and didn’t know this. Why? Because Kathy Huston is the real deal when it comes to having a servant’s heart; she loves in secret.

As if Kathy’s giving character were not enough to commend, she is by nature one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known, and I use the adjective “sweet” in the most complimentary, exemplary way possible.

So, here’s to you Kathy. May you be blessed ten-fold for the blessing you’ve been to me!

The Funambulist and Her Band of Buffoons

2009-11-08T15:40:00.000-08:00

The Funambulist and Her Band of Buffoons

(Les Crunches, Vortexia) -- Kim, the vivacious Group Power instructor at the gym I belong to, is a saucy little spitfire whose irrepressible personality makes working out not only bearable, but actually fun. That this 30-something, single mother of four is astonishingly fit was incentive enough for me to take her class. Who in their right mind wouldn’t drag themselves out of bed every morning in the hope of attaining a body like hers? (Madness, I know, but who says women are sane when it comes to their body image?)

Of course, it would be easy to envy this effusive dynamo, this impulsive, beautiful woman with her dazzling smile and infectious laugh, this human pretzel who can contort her body into any shape, lift as much weight as a man, do hand stands with one arm and dance like a female Michael Jackson. Next to her I feel like a centenarian on Prozac. But Kim is also as playful, transparent and vulnerable as a ten-year old; so not loving her is simply not an option.

Another element at play in this scenario is small-town life. Here, if everyone doesn’t know everyone, we at least know of someone who does. In other words, when it comes to relationships, we hit the ground running, and by necessity, we are our own entertainment. Add to this picture the group of diverse women taking Kim’s class – savvy young girls, gossip-hungry moms, mid-life fugitives, renegade retirees – and you see why my group power classes are never, ever, ever, dull.

During our workout the other day, for example, Kim announced that her current boyfriend, and several of his friends, had dressed as Ghostbusters for Halloween, posting their pictures on Facebook.

“So, you know I don’t tell nasty jokes, right?” she asked, the droll tone of her voice a sure sign we were in for another one of her legendary stories.

Straining to lift our weights in time to the music, we all nodded in agreement. It was true; we had never heard her tell an off-color joke. Almost never. Not really off-color.

“Well, I made a comment on his Facebook page,” she continued, “telling him I’d seen an apparition in my bedroom and I that I was going to call and have them come over to take care of it. It was a joke.”

She paused for effect, and then indignantly blurted, “He deleted my comment because he said it was too racy! Can you believe that?”

“I must be dense,” I muttered, laboring through my lunges. “I don’t get how he thought that was ‘racy.’”

“Yeah,” a chorus of female voices agreed. “He’s the one with a dirty mind. Ach, men! They…”

Phillip, the lone male in our class, blushed. We bantered back-and-forth for a minute, wickedly relishing poor Phillip’s discomfort.

Kim picked up two fifteen-pound weights, flexing her perfectly toned biceps. “Well, thank you!” she chirped. “It was a totally innocent comment. You know, his response is just another sign that we aren’t very compatible. I broke up with him once before and he talked me into getting back with him. Now I’ll have to break up with him all over again.”

Was she kidding?

After we finished our reps, Terry, a straight-talking former social worker, set her weights down with a sigh. “If you’re going to break up with your boyfriend, Kim,” she said, her expression completely deadpan, “just text him back and tell him it wasn’t an apparition after all, so you won’t need his help.”

Group buffoonery; the best sport of all…and, oh, so therapeutic. Just don’t be looking for me to bare my soul at the gym anytime soon.

2009-10-10T13:58:00.001-07:00

UNSUNG HERO OF THE MONTH

Sandra Byrd

My October Unsung Hero is dear friend and best-selling author Sandra Byrd of Seattle, Washington. Three dozen of her books have been published, including the Secret Sisters and Friends for a Season series; an amazing accomplishment.

Her adult fiction novel, Let Them Eat Cake, was a Christy Award finalist. The third book in that series, following Bon Appétit, is the newly released Pièce de Résistance.

Sandra rates as a hero because of her integrity, determination and perseverance in the publishing industry, her devotion to God and her family, and her grace, compassion and generosity as a human being. When I first met Sandra at a writer’s conference in Colorado, she befriended me – a virtual nobody – and voluntarily took me under her writer’s wing. It was her selfless encouragement and inspiration that provided me with the confidence necessary to pursue my own dream of being a published author. I highly recommend you visit Sandra at www.sandrabyrd.com and check out her books while you’re at it. Sandra, this one’s for you!

A "Meet the Parents" Moment

2009-10-06T18:59:00.000-07:00

A "Meet the Parents" Moment

(Poetic Justice, Vortexia) – Remember my husband’s run-in with the long arm of the law? (See August 6). Well, this month he had another run-in; this time with our future son-in-law. It was a scene right out of “Meet the Parents.”

Dave, as you’ll recall, is an intrepid driver, the guy you want behind the wheel in an emergency. He is also extremely proud of his driving record, having never been in an accident. That is, he’s never been in an accident in public. Here at home it’s another story.

Case in point: Years ago, I was in the house cooking when suddenly I was startled by a loud crash coming from our covered wood shed. I ran to the window to see the front end of our ’68 Chevy pickup sticking out the other end of the building and Dave standing nearby half-dazed. He told me he had started the truck and then been surprised by a yellow jacket in the cab (he’s allergic to their sting). As he bailed out of the rig, he somehow pressed on the accelerator. Defending his male ego, he blustered that anyone would have done the same thing. I mean, who in their right mind would turn off the ignition before jumping from a moving truck when a killer bee is poised to strike?

My own vehicular stupidities are not so easily rationalized away. Like the time I rushed out at night to go to a meeting and didn’t think to look in my rear-view mirror before backing up. Our pastor, who had come to visit us, had parked his brand new Honda right behind our car. I put the car in reverse, gunned the engine and T-boned our pastor’s car, doing hundreds of dollars of damage to it. It took me a good ten minutes to work up the courage to go back into the house and break the news to him. That was a difficult one to live down.

But I digress. Back to Dave.

It is vital to this story to inform you, at this juncture, that Big Time Dave is a perfectionist; someone who has all their ducks in a row. He takes his sweet time with everything and is circumspect in all he does. He is an engineer after all; his genes scream order, regimentation, functionality. For example, he’s the self-appointed family valet parking attendant. As such, he is very particular about where all the cars in our circular driveway are parked (for reasons only he understands; we simply indulge his professorial whimsies). And having never forgotten my run-in with our pastor’s Honda, he has long made it his duty to remind us all of the dangers of parking our cars in spots where someone might forget to look when backing up. Sensible enough, eh?

Well, the other night – while our future son-in-law Alex was here visiting our daughter -- my husband and I hopped into our car to go to town. Dave put the car in reverse, pressed hard on the accelerator, and backed up without looking. Bam! From the sound of the impact, you would have thought we’d totaled both our car and Alex’s. When Alex came out of the house, Dave – still in shock – sputtered some inanities about how he had warned everyone about the dangers of parking in certain areas of the driveway, how he knew this would happen some day, etc., etc.

Vindictive creature that I am, I took great delight in rubbing it in. “There’s no one to blame but yourself, Dave,” I snarked. “You should have looked in the rear-view mirror before backing up.”

Nearly a dozen passionate protestations later, he finally, albeit grudgingly and with caveats, admitted he alone was responsible for the collision. Miraculously, neither car suffered damage. Alex had forgotten to put his car in park, so when we backed into it, it actually rolled out of the driveway, over a railroad tie, and hit a post holding up our grape arbor. Fortunately, the post was rotten and when his car hit it, it gave way, absorbing the impact.

Poor Alex. Had this been the first visit to our home, he may – like Ben Stiller – have been tempted to run from the Neumann family as fast, and as far away, as he could. I wouldn’t have blamed him. After all, having your future father-in-law rant at you about where you parked your car in the driveway and worse, transferring blame for the accident to you, would terrify the most gallant suitor. But Alex is made of stronger stuff than that, and Dave – despite his eccentricities – is impossible not to like. His redeeming quality, he readily admits, is a great sense of humor. He’s a good man, a great father, and a hoot to boot. As he is wont to remind us when episodes like this arise, rather than judge him on his one – or two – minor character flaws, we should judge the “whole package.”

So hang in there Alex. You’re not only gaining a wife, but a whole package father-in-law as well. Isn’t that great? Oh, and don’t forget where to park your car next time you come over.

Angel and Demon: A Tale of Two Kitties

2009-09-22T19:52:00.000-07:00

Angel and Demon: A Tale of Two Kitties

(LaPurr, Vortexia) – Being country folk, we’ve always had cats. Stella, one of our more recent ones, disappeared without a trace a year ago when, in a jealous rage, she boycotted our selection of a companion for her. She simply stalked off and never returned.

Important Stella history: The runt of the litter, she almost died when she was a kitten. Unfortunately, our heroic efforts to save Stella resulted in her suffering brain damage which manifested in a variety of psychoses, not the least of which was body dysmorphic disorder. Our pint-sized jet-black Stella seriously thought she was a panther. She stalked -- and killed -- snakes, rats and other animals larger than herself; animals a dog would run from. The offal she regularly deposited on our front porch was disgusting in the extreme. More than once, she climbed a100-foot-tall fir tree behind our house, refusing to come down for days. Indeed, she was so deranged, we actually breathed a collective sigh of relief when she disappeared.

Stella’s successor, Stu (the companion she loathed) is by far the best feline ever to grace our humble estate. He is handsome, clever, playful, winsome and lovable. In short, he is everything Stella was not. The only thing Stella and Stu shared in common – a cardinal quality any Neumann cat must have -- is that they were good mousers.

Which brings me to the present.

We began to worry when Stu suddenly no longer looked his dapper self. He began to roam at night. He acted distant. His tail looked creepy; as though he had stuck it in a light socket.

“Not to worry,” the vet assured us. “We call it ‘stud-tail.’ Time to get him neutered.”

Since ‘catting around’ is a cat’s unpardonable sin, and worse, his male drive was interfering with his ability to mouse properly, we made the dreaded appointment. Several days before Stu went under the knife, however, a black cat reappeared, spectre-like, on the edge of our field.

“It couldn’t be Stella,” we reasoned. But when she saw Stu she arched her back. When I reached for her, she hissed, bared her teeth at me, and stormed off into the woods as though she was the Queen of Sheba. It was Stella alright. A check with some neighbors revealed that Stella sightings have been occurring over the last few months at odd times, always ending with her running off before she can be repatriated.

So, Stu lost his manhood and is back home now. At least most of Stu is back (lol). Admittedly, there is some trepidation over the possibility that he could, like Stella, develop some post-surgery body image issues. He could turn into Garfield -- lazy, insolent, narcissistic – which, of course, would not do. An even bigger fear is that Stella will return, sense the change in her adversary and force Stu into being her personal eunuch.

Oh, the vagaries of cats!

Meanwhile, we watch and wait, on the lookout for a pair of green panther eyes shining at us wickedly from the woods at night. And we keep Stu close to home. Very close.

Grandma Update: She's Wearing Lipstick

2009-09-06T16:54:00.000-07:00

Grandma Update: She’s Wearing Lipstick

(Golden Years, Vortexia) -- Grandma has made an extraordinary transformation. She’s wearing lipstick. At 92 years of age, it’s more than remarkable. It’s a sign.

With her beautiful Italian coloring, Tuscan blue eyes and white hair, grandma used to sport a splash of lipstick and on special occasions some subtle eye-shadow. She always dressed impeccably. But, when she turned 90 she stopped wearing makeup.

You see, my mother-in-law is an amazing woman, but her up-beat personality and zest for life weren’t enough to sustain her through trials the last two years have wrought. Among other things, she: 1) survived a ruptured gall bladder, 2) lost her husband, first to dementia and then to kidney failure, and 3) suffered a stroke which left her without any peripheral vision.

Not long ago my observant daughter asked her grandmother why she no longer wore make up.

“I’m too old,” explained Grandma with a shrug. “I guess I just don’t care anymore.”

Fellow Vortexians may recall that about a month ago Grandma moved into her own apartment in a nearby independent living facility. We all cried saying good-night to her the first night she stayed there. In all her life, she had never lived alone. Not that living in the senior facility is living alone, but….

It didn’t take long for her to make the adjustment and every time we see her or call her she looks and sounds…happy. Really happy. She actually has a bounce to her step again. Residents at the facility gravitate to her and she has her old charm back.

Yesterday when I visited her, she opened the door and I took a double take. She was wearing pink lipstick and a dusting of blue eyeshadow.

I won’t say what conclusion I, and my daughters, jumped to. After all, it’s just lipstick, right?

Life: Deal With It!

2009-08-26T20:16:00.000-07:00

Life: Deal With It!

(Whinging Valley, Vortexia) – Deal with it! Get over it! How many times have we wished we could shout that at someone? The problem is, sometimes we need to shout it to ourselves. Why, I had to chastise myself just the other day to deal with an issue I would have rather ignored.

I can’t remember exactly what I was in such a dither about. Aging, most likely. Or perhaps the maddening, convoluted process of getting published. Maybe it was the fact that my father is battling lung cancer. Probably all three, with the latter providing the primary reason for wanting to hide my head in the proverbial sand.

Ah, denial, my dysfunctional friend. It’s such an attractive alternative in dealing with fear; in dealing with all of life’s imperfections. Indeed, I’ve perfected the art of pretending life is painless, that there’s no illness that can’t be cured and no life that can’t be resurrected. I imagine that I will live to be 100 and so will all of my friends and loved ones. I imagine every newlywed will be married happily ever after.

When accused of not being a realist, my defense, of course, is that I’m an optimist. But I delude myself; optimism is faith, and hope, in the face of reality. It allows us to tackle and defeat an enemy and move on. Denial is fantasy, pure and simple. It traps us in time and space and strangles any chance of gaining victory over our demons.

To deny the challenges and natural consequences of aging is illusory and just plain stupid. I might as well tell myself money grows on trees as believe growing old is a walk in the park.

And I’m learning to accept the goal of being a published novelist as the sadistic pursuit it is, rather than the romanticized image I once entertained. What a relief.

I will lose my dad some day. There’s no denying death, that grand-daddy of all fears, ever present boogey-man of our minds, thief of our peace and tormentor of our souls. It is the ultimate denial killer. After interviewing the Vicar of Baghdad recently, my pre-occupation with my father’s cancer subsided. There’s nothing like talking with someone who faces death everyday with a smile on their face to put it all in perspective. I’m no longer thinking of death in terms of “this side of the veil.” Instead, I’m training myself to look beyond the horizon into eternity.

So, after a two-week hiatus brought on by a writers’ conference, multiple manuscript submissions, and my dad’s health crisis, I’m back in Vortexia, refocused, rolling with the punches, raring to move on and deal with it.

It’s high time.

The Long Arm of the Law Reaches Around the World, Snagging Unsuspecting Man

2009-08-06T17:06:00.000-07:00

The Long Arm of the Law Reaches Around the World, Snagging Unsuspecting Man

(Veni-Vidi-Vici, Vortexia) - Last summer we were in Italy for a Bertozzi family reunion. My husband, Big Time Dave, had unanimously been voted our designated driver. But before I tell you what happened this week, you must know something about Dave. He is a good driver. I didn’t say “safe” driver. “Good” and “safe” are sometimes two different things.

Dave is one of those fearless, “take-the-bull-by-the-horns” types; the kind of driver you would want to be in control of your car in an emergency. I’ve witnessed some of his hair-raising maneuvers and can guarantee they border on the miraculous. To this day, I still marvel at some of them.

Like the time we were separated from our lead car in the heart of Paris during rush hour and he did a U-turn in the middle of the Place de la Concorde. Eye-witnesses on the street were astonished. Or the time he returned a car rental in downtown Marseilles within moments of boarding our train. Anyone who has been to this little French Algeria on the Cote d’Azure knows what an incredible feat of motor engineering that must have been. Or the time he backed up on an interstate overpass in Rome. I nearly lost my lunch on that one.

Of course, that’s the kind of moxie a driver must have to drive in Italy.

As fate would have it, however, this week (almost a year from the date we were in Italy last year) Dave received a traffic ticket for 102 euros in the mail from EMO - The European Municipality Outsourcing. It was a lovely looking envelope with lovely print and grand flourishes; just like everything else in Italy. Lovely.

The loveliness was lost on Dave. You see, my husband is also a proud man when it comes to traffic fines. He was initially incredulous, then indignant, and finally outraged by a traffic camera’s claim that, on the outskirts of Florence last August he – according to Art. Lo 7C.14 – CIRCULATED ON THE BUS LANE DESPITE THE PROHIBITING TRAFFIC SIGNS AT THE BEGINNING OF THE BUS LANE.

Although he suffered a mental block while trying to recall that day in Florence, I remembered it vividly. Dave was in the front seat asking (shouting, actually) “What lane do I get in?” I and a friend in the back seat, magnifiers in hand, were pouring over a map straddled across our laps trying to make sense of the tangle of roads before us in the split-second we had to make a decision. It was the first of so many fiascos that day on the road to Rome, I’m surprised our mail box wasn’t flooded with traffic tickets when we got home.

Poor Dave. The long arm of the law, reaching all the way from Italy, has found him.

At first he debated not paying the fine, but thought better of it when he realized it would mean he could never go back. He would be a wanted man the next time we visited his cousins, and that just would not do. So, he’s sucking it up and coughing up the fine.

Given the daring reputation Daddy Dave has built for himself these last years, my kids and I are laughing till our sides hurt.

Knowing Which Bullets to Dodge and Which Bullets to Chase Down

2009-08-03T14:28:00.001-07:00

KNOWING WHICH BULLETS TO DODGE AND WHICH BULLETS TO CHASE DOWN

(Pensees Park, Vortexia) – I have been informed by a concerned reader that a certain medication affiliated with a certain medical procedure I wrote about recently can cause kidney failure. Since I am still alive, I can safely assume I dodged that bullet, though the air is certainly thick with them, 24/7. It’s a real battle out there, folks.

Worse yet, (or better yet, depending on your ability to handle morbid thoughts) these metaphorical “bullets” seem to come with their intended victims’ names engraved on them along with the purpose of their mission…such as “Teresa Neumann – kill kidneys.”

Everyone has their bullet-dodging “close call” stories, of course. Those times we “just missed” being in a car accident, or “almost” lost our job, or just in the “nick of time” were snatched from disaster. Unfortunately, we rarely have the benefit of seeing these allegorical bullets until they zing past us so closely they sting.

To complicate matters, timing and location are critical to the ability of these “bullets” to hit their targeted victim. Take the case of our neighbor who was killed instantly while on his daily morning walk by a man who fell asleep at the wheel. If our neighbor had only slept a moment later, or had that second cup of coffee before leaving, or (fill in the blanks), he wouldn’t have been at the exact place at the exact time he was killed. Mind-boggling. Scary. Shades of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.

But, seriously, there is another side to (dare I phrase it?) the “destiny” coin, and those are bullets of grace. Bullets engraved with promises, revelation and healing. These are the bullets that slap us upside the head with joy when they hit. The jobs we were convinced we’d never get, but did. The perfect mate we thought we would never find, but did. Those are the bullets we want to hit us smack on. No running, ducking or hiding from them, my friends.

Come to think of it, since 2009 has been a war-torn year for me, I guess I should take my own advice, quit cowering in fear over the next bullet I need to dodge and go on the offensive.

If you see any grace bullets with my name on them would you send them my way?

5 Reasons Why Women (Should) Love Colonoscopies

2009-07-29T16:23:00.000-07:00

5 REASONS WOMEN (SHOULD) LOVE COLONOSCOPIES

(True Confessions, Vortexia) – I recently had a colonoscopy. For reasons I won’t go into here, I have had three over the course of ten years. I say it unashamedly. Proudly even.

The king of colon health awareness is, of course, the legendary humorist Dave Berry. Since it would be impossible to top his hilarious piece de resistance, A Journal Into My Colon and Yours miamiherald.com/283/story/427603.html I will simply address the benefits of this procedure from a woman’s perspective.

There are five very good reasons why women should/would love having a colonoscopy:

The dreaded “prep” the day before the procedure, in which the patient is expected to drink copious amounts of fluid, and deposit equally copious amounts of fluid in their septic or sewer system, is an excuse to sequester yourself from the niggling demands of husband and/or children.
The dreaded “prep” is also a convenient way to drop a couple of pounds over night.
You are “knocked out” (semi-conscious) during the actual procedure. It means that you will enjoy a guilt-free deep sleep surrounded by motherly, pampering nurses; during the day, no less. Nice.
Upon arriving back home the day of the procedure you can milk your recuperation for all it’s worth. No cooking, no cleaning, no nothing. Grab a blanket, a good book and/or video and sequester yourself from the niggling demands of husband and/or children.
Better yet, niggling husbands and/or children will be forced to feel sorry for you and perhaps learn to appreciate you more. At least in the short term, until the day after the procedure when you will be expected to return to full-duty.

The truth be told, I am guilty of Nos. 1-4 above. And no, I don’t care that my husband’s empathy for me stems from the fact he’s glad he’s not the one having the abhorrent procedure. Sympathy is sympathy and I’ll take it whenever I can.

Of course, I jest. Kind of.

Really girls, you can do it! As I’m fond of telling my disbelieving husband: “I’ve given birth three times. A colonoscopy is nothing!”

If you have any suspicious symptoms, see your doctor and ask if you need to have a colonoscopy. If you are uninsured, check with local agencies to see if there are low cost clinics that can help you.

The peace of mind that comes from knowing you have a clean bill of health, or that you were able to catch something early before it became untreatable, is well worth the effort made. Not to mention the perks of rare self-indulgence women can glean from the experience.

Don’t put it off any longer. Do something about it today.

Road Hog Backs Up Interstate Traffic for Miles; Incites Road Rage

2009-07-26T21:20:00.000-07:00

ROAD HOG BACKS UP INTERSTATE TRAFFIC FOR MILES; INCITES ROAD RAGE

(Peevesboro, Vortexia) -- A recent trip to Portland on I-5 proved to be another jaw-clenching exercise in self-control for this usually serene writer. The source of my vexation? Road hogs.

Here’s what happened. On a long stretch of the interstate, far from a major city, the traffic had come nearly to a standstill. Moments later, cars behind me began darting into gaps in the slow lane, merging back into the left (passing) lane far ahead of me. Taking their cue, I followed suit.

Was it a wreck that had been holding up traffic? No.

Road construction? Nope.

Then surely, it was rush hour? Guess again.

The culprit was a sophisticated looking woman driving a small luxury vehicle in the passing lane, her elbow resting casually out her window as she chatted away on her cell phone. On her lap was a miniature poodle straining to look over the steering wheel. Cruising nonchalantly at 55 mph (the speed limit in Oregon is 65), she was oblivious to everything and everyone around her.

A better person would have chalked this woman’s infraction up to ignorance, but when it comes to people driving slowly in the passing lane that better person is not me. After considerable fuming, I came to the conclusion that road hogs share three things in common:

They travel just at, or below, the speed limit.
They presume that as long as they’re not speeding, they can drive in any lane they wish for as long as they want.
They either don’t see the signs that say “Slower Traffic Keep Right,” or they choose to ignore them.

I realize there’s probably nothing to be done about the problem; worse yet, I suppose the onus falls on me to control my “road-rage.”

But still, can’t someone invent an LED display for the rear window or bumper of my car that I can program in messages for road-hogs when I pass them? Something like, “Move over imbecile!” or “Get your bum into the slow lane!” or “Pass or give up your spot!”

I guarantee, such an invention would make someone a millionaire. It would certainly make a lot of drivers, like me, very happy.

Sarah Palin May Abandon Her Family and Move To America?

2009-07-19T16:51:00.000-07:00

SARAH PALIN MAY ABANDON HER FAMILY TO MOVE TO AMERICA?

(Scary Senior Momentsburg, Vortexia) -- The other day, while watching the news about Governor Sarah Palin’s resignation, grandma made a startling observation.

“So that means she’ll probably leave her kids now and move to America,” she said.

My husband Dave and I looked at each other.

“What do you mean, mom?” my husband asked.

“Well, she can’t bring her family to America with her.”

Intrigued, Dave pressed her further. “When you say ‘America’ you mean ‘Washington,’ don’t you?”

As in, Palin could have her eyes on the White House. Surely, that was what his mentally alert 92-year-old mother, who watches the evening news on a daily basis, meant.

Rather frustrated, she replied, “You know what I mean! She can’t bring her children with her if she moves to America.”

Dave shook his head. “Mom, Alaska is a state; not a different country. She couldn’t have been on a presidential ticket if she wasn’t an American.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Grandma looked chagrined, but also more than a little annoyed.

We won’t mention who she voted for in the last election, nor will we broach the subject of voter intelligence. It would be unkind and pointless and besides, this blog aims to steer clear of political controversies.

That said, it’s senior moments like these that make for priceless memories.

Grandma Abandons Family

2009-07-17T09:24:00.000-07:00

GRANDMA ABANDONS FAMILY; HOW DARE SHE HAVE A LIFE OF HER OWN?

(Pity Partytown, Vortexia) – Grandma is leaving. Slowly, but surely, my 92-year-old widowed mother-in-law is spreading her wings after living with us for the last seven months.

Still independent, she has found an apartment at a local senior facility where she will, no doubt, embark on a more exciting life. I guess watching me slouch, slack-jawed, at my computer 8-hours a day wasn’t enough entertainment for her.

Even so, how dare she leave us? Doesn’t she know she has (through no fault of her own) become my pet, my unplanned fourth child? I tiptoe through the house when she sleeps. Because she is too short to reach my cupboards, I set her breakfast out for her every night before going to bed. I drive her to her many appointments, comfort her when she is confused or distraught, and watch programs with her I would never watch myself.

I am facing an empty nest again. That’s the rub. I try telling myself it will be great to have my days back all to myself, but know it’s only half-true.

Of course, I won’t miss worrying that she’ll fall while I’m gone; nor will I miss her fretting fatalistic grousings. But the truth is, I’m going to miss grandma terribly. I’ll miss her lovely soft white hair, her frail little mannerisms, her sweet voice and kind exhortations. I’ll miss her presence here in the house.

On the bright side, I know the new life she is embarking upon will not only be fulfilling for her, but will provide me with countless stories found only in the incomparable world of senior care homes. Anyone remember Yetta on “The Nanny?”

Stay tuned for more…

UNEXPECTED ANNOUNCEMENT THROWS WRENCH IN VORTEXIA

(El Murphy’s Law, Vortexia) – News flash. My youngest daughter has just announced she is moving back home after having lived on her own for a year. Appears we’ll be moving her in as we’re moving grandma out.

Scratch the empty nest lament above.

If universe means “one-song,” vortexiverse means
“crazy melodies with a calm hook”