Ready, Set... Fizzle

I had good intentions. I made a list, and I even got off to a decent start, but then little by little, my summer just derailed. 

First of all, my mom had a mini-stroke, and I spent a weekend trying to convince an incompetent group of nurses that denying food and medicine to a diabetic with high blood pressure and a history of stroke was a bad idea. A couple of days after Mom got out of the hospital, she had a car wreck. (She would want me to point out here that it was not her fault. Some young punk with no insurance ran a red light.) Luckily, she hobbled away with only a broken ankle, but the accident brought a little more chaos.

I love my mom, and I would drop everything at a moment's notice if she needed me. However, I am a total wimp when it comes to rolling with the punches. If anything alters my routine--and I mean anything, like running out of peanut butter or taking a different route to work--my sense of stability evaporates. I'm not proud of my inflexibility, and I'm trying to rewire my brain. In the mean time, all I can do is try to regroup as best I can.

I did get a couple of things done before my attention span was all used up. First of all, I painted the dining room red Rhett and and our friend, Wally, painted the dining room red while my inner perfectionist ran wild and stressed over every detail.  Thank goodness for second coats--and thank goodness for friends like Wally! I'll post pictures of the dining room as soon as we're completely done decorating so you can see the full before and after effect. (At the rate I'm going, expect pictures the spring of 2011.)

I also started taking down the wallpaper in the kitchen. I started with a small section, so I could see if the Wallwik would really work as promised.

It worked great! I was so encouraged by my success that I set about scoring the wallpaper in the entire kitchen so I could remove the rest of the paper right away.

 

And that's where it ended.

I had hoped to finish the kitchen before my trip to Mexico, but I just don't see how I can get it done.  Until we get back to the project, we're just claiming that we've redone our walls with a new "scribble mark" faux finish.

I've still got a couple of weeks before I leave the country, but at this point I've given up. If I can manage to get to the airport on time and not get quarantined for swine flu while I'm in Mexico, I'll be happy. I'm sure my kitchen that looks like it's been attacked by an angry toddler and my red but undecorated dining room will be right where I left them when I get home.

The Continuous Atonement by Brad Wilcox

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars
In The Countinuous Atonement, Brad Wilcox helps readers to view Christ's atonement for our sins from a different perspective. I've always thought of Jesus's sacrifice as a one-time event with eternal blessings, but now I see it as an ongoing relationship with my Savior. I especially liked Wilcox's message on grace and works: We don't do good works to earn the Lord's grace; our works are merely a natural extension if we accept His grace and allow it to change us. For someone who feels inadequate every day, The Continuous Atonement was an encouraging and inspiring read.

View all my reviews.

Meltdown on Aisle Three

I was out shopping today when I remembered I needed to pick up some thank you cards. As I was trying to decide between notes with too-cutesy pink daisies or sickeningly adorable kittens, the Father's Day cards caught my eye.

"Wonderful!" I thought. I usually scramble out for a card at the last minute, but why not be ahead of the game for a change? Heck, it's not even June yet! Before my fingers even touched the cardstock, though, I realized something.

I have one less Father's Day card to buy this year.

As my throat tightened and my eyes threatened to spring a leak, I willed myself to hold it together. I only made it as far as the Dry Erase markers one aisle over. I fumbled around for a tissue in my purse and tried to concoct an explanation for my breakdown. Thank goodness it was a quiet afternoon in office supplies because telling someone I was distraught over not being able to find a turquoise Sharpie would have probably seemed stranger than the original crying jag.

This year, the boys are going shopping for Father's Day cards on their own.

Study by Immersion: Not Just for Languages

For those of you who don't know yet, I'm going to Guadalajara, Mexico for a month to study Spanish as part of UALR's study abroad program. I leave July 8, and I'm both excited and nervous. I've never traveled outside the United States before. (I haven't traveled within the United States much either, for that matter.) I'm not nervous about the swine flu or drug cartel violence. What actually frightens me most is talking to native speakers. What if I can't understand them as they rattle off español at lightning speed? What if they can't understand me as I fumble for words and phrases stored in the second-language section of my brain? I'm a communicator by nature, so not being able to communicate is scarier than a global pandemic in my book.

To improve my Spanish skills before I go, I've been studying SpanishPod. They have podcasts ranging from Newbie to Advanced levels. I enjoy listening to the Newbie and Elementary levels because even though I don't learn new grammar or vocabulary, I do learn new phrases and culture. I'm most at home with the Intermediate lessons, and I can understand the Advanced lessons if I look at the accompanying transcript as I listen.

Today, I was listening to SpanishPod while I cleaned house, and an Advanced lesson came up in the queue. I instantly hit pause, longing for the transcript crutch to guide me through the fast speaking and unfamiliar vocabulary. Then I realized that when I'm in Guadalajara, nobody will offer me a PDF transcript of our conversations; I will have to dive in and soak up the Spanish without  any study aids. I hit play and listened.

I couldn't understand exactly what was being said, which made me a little uncomfortable, but I was at least getting a feel for the cadence and pronunciation of Spanish at full speed. Whenever I actually grasped what was being said, I rejoiced and felt hopeful that I could eventually understand more. By immersing myself in the language, I will gradually grow more comfortable and more capable.

Isn't the gospel a little like that? When we first decide to change our lives and draw closer to the Lord, we are in unfamiliar territory. We cling to the first steps of faith and repentance. We renew our baptismal covenants each week as we partake of the sacrament. We study our Sunday school lessons and follow the scripture chains outlined in our study guides. These steps are all wonderful and essential, but the next step, making that leap from being saved by grace to being changed by grace, is a little scary.

How do we do it? Well, we study by immersion. After all, isn't our time here on earth like a spiritual study abroad program? We surround ourselves with people of faith who can testify of the Lord's amazing power in their own lives. More importantly, we fumble around for our own elementary level faith and dive right in, soaking up the blessings the Lord offers us. As we practice living by new standards and promises, we grow more confident in our own abilities to learn and grow. Best of all, we gain our own testimonies of the Savior's redeeming love.

Just like learning a language, we will all stumble now and then. One of my Spanish teachers once asked for jugo de araña instead of jugo de naranja at a restaurant in Mexico. Luckily, the waiter realized she didn't really want spider juice, but orange juice. Likewise, the Lord understands our hearts and will gently guide us as we learn. Thank goodness, because I need a lot more study before I'll be fluent in the gospel.

To-Do List

I know that the weathermen (Was that sexist? Let's go with meteorologists...) don't think summer begins until June 21, but as far as I'm concerned, summer began Saturday night around 11 o'clock when I finished up the last of my school assignments. I can't wait to get started on my list:

1. Paint the dining room red.

2. Remove the mid-90's style wallpaper border from the living room, and paint that room any color that will coordinate with the blissfully red dining room.

3. Remove the painted-over wallpaper (horrors!) in the kitchen and paint it whatever color will make the cabinets and countertops I can't afford to replace yet look a little less left-over-from-1983.

4. Between coats of paint, read some of the 183 books patiently waiting on my GoodReads list.

5. Knit something. Anything. I really miss knitting.

6. Study Spanish (probably through SpanishPod) at least 30 minutes every day to get ready for my trip to Mexico. I reserve the right to watch telenovelas for a half-hour and call that studying.

7. Build custom bookshelves for the living room.

8. Put in a garden bed. I know it's too late to plant much this year, but I would be content to grow a little spinach and lettuce and maybe some cilantro. At least then the garden bed would be there for next year.

9. Blog more than I have been. Since I haven't blogged for over 8 months, blogging quarterly would be a huge improvement.

10. Become the woman my patriarchal blessing says I can be. This actually inspires another, much longer, to-do list. If I could sum up my blessing in a nutshell, though, it basically says, "Read your scriptures EVERY day, and be nice!" I think I'll just start there.

Whew!

The nurse finally called and said the results were benign.

Now I feel like a total dork for being so scared.

Tick...Tick...Tick...

I'm trying to be patient. I'm trying to keep my mind on other things. I'm constantly reminding myself that there's a much bigger chance I'll get good news as opposed to bad.

I'm not doing a very good job with any of those things.

I went to see a new OB/GYN Thursday afternoon, a task I always dread, although I don't really know any woman who enjoys the process. I've especially been putting it off because my old (or should I say old school) doctor, while not a misogynist, views women as silly little girls who don't know anything about their own bodies. When my family practice doctor urged me to check into some symptoms I've been having, I was relieved to find that that Dr. Pat-you-on-the-hand-with-a-condescending-tone wasn't available, but Dr. New Guy had some openings right away.

When I went in for my appointment, I braced myself for the possibility that the new doc could just be a clone of the old one. Refreshingly, he wasn't. He actually talked with me instead of staring at my chart and crossing things off. He seemed genuinely interested in hearing what I had to say. His manner was comforting. That comfort did little for me, however, when he leaned in, looked me straight in the eye, said that he was "concerned" about the combination of symptoms and risk factors, and told me that we "really need" to do an endometrial biopsy.

It's one thing for a sister or a friend to say you really need to go see the doctor. It's even a little unnerving to google your symptoms and see the frightening possibilities, but you can still tell yourself not to pay attention to the information overload, and the worries magically evaporate. To see the eerie combination of kindness and gravity in your doctor's eyes as he describes in detail the procedure that will check for cancer cells lurking within your body - well, that can make your blood run cold.

The biopsy was quick. Painless? Not so much. Since I left Dr. New Guy's office, I've been trying to concentrate on anything but the test results: homework, unpacking, movie night with Rhett and the kids. Every cramp I feel jolts my memory of the painful procedure and the possibilities associated with it. No matter what I do, the soundtrack of my worry and fear plays in the background music of my brain. I'm an impatient control freak with huge fear of the unknown, so waiting for results I can't control is cruel punishment indeed.

I keep scouring the internet trying to find the story of someone with similar risk factors and symptoms who got a negative biopsy. I'll find someone whose story is almost identical to mine, but when she says she was diagnosed with cancer, I'll brush it off because she had two kids instead of three or maybe she's 38, not 35. The biggest problem is that the bullet dodgers don't post their stories; they let out a relieved sigh and go back to their PTA meetings. I've decided that when I (hopefully) get good news back from Dr. New Guy, I'm going to post my story on every endometrial cancer message board I can find. Then when some other impatient control freak with an information addiction is searching for a tiny glimmer of hope, she'll find it, and maybe that will make the wating a little less excruciating.

Loss

I grew up afraid of my dad. He was actually a great guy who always had a joke to tell and a hand to lend to anyone who needed it. As a father, however, he could be harsh, and I eventually learned to stay out of his way. No need to go into details, but suffice it to say that I still have emotional scars from growing up as his daughter.

As an adult, I grew to know him as a fellow traveler in this earthly life instead of just as my dad. I came to understand that he did the best he could with the tools he had. Still, as his health has deteriorated over the years, I’ve been afraid that when he died, the biggest tragedy would be that I wouldn't miss him enough.

That fear turns out to be unfounded.

I am so grateful for the chance I had to be with him in his final days. For the past year or so I have felt called, for the lack of a better word, to help my parents through this transition – both to ease my father’s suffering and to comfort my mother. As difficult as the last week of my father’s life was for all of us, I constantly felt a gentle reassurance that I was exactly where I needed to be.

I was afraid to leave his bedside toward the end, so I sat near him for hours at a time listening to the rhythm of his jagged breath while the "click, click, click" of my knitting needles soothed my aching heart. The day before he passed away, he awoke for a brief moment and turned to me, his eyes bright and clear.

“Sometimes life gets complicated, doesn’t it?” he said.

I was startled by his sudden lucidity. He had spent the past several days in a hallucinatory la-la land filled with cowboys and indians. “Yeah, I guess it does, Dad,” I replied. He soon drifted back into his haze.

The next day, family gathered around to say goodbyes. During the night, with my mother, my sister, and I gathered around his bed, his breathing gradually eased, and the time between each breath grew longer and longer. Then in a quiet, peaceful moment, I felt him slip away. The hospice nurse listened for a heartbeat and said, “He’s gone.”

All I could say was, “I know.”

In the end, all the bad stuff between us didn’t matter. He was my dad. I loved him, and he loved me.

I miss him terribly.

Robert Wilson

October 4, 1929 - July 5, 2008

Weathering the Storm

Last night we were serenaded by tornado sirens. Often, the weathermen accompany this song with claims that the sky is falling and later recant their prophecies of doom. We've become a little jaded and don't pay much attention to the warning wails of the sirens or the cries of the men analyzing the radar.

Last night was different. When we heard the stereotypical freight train sound of an approaching twister, we took cover. We emerged unscathed, and in our yard, a fallen tree branch is the only evidence of foul weather.

Our neighbors one block over weren't as lucky, and the next county over is worse still. Here are a few photos from our neck of the woods:

I find this to be a little ironic:

Beauty amid the destruction:

Drawing a Blank

Conversation Regarding Lack of Inspiration

Me: Do you think I'll ever write another blog post again?

Rhett: Oh, I bet you will.

We'll see...