The C-word

Someone I care about has been diagnosed with breast cancer…again. I sent her a note a couple days ago hoping it would help. She indicated it did, a bit. It is hard for anyone to address the C-word with someone they love.

At times friends have asked me what to say in that situation. The answer is not forthcoming because everyone reacts differently to life-threatening illnesses. Having said that, this is some of what I wrote to my friend:

The scary part is not the mastectomy surgery but the not knowing what the results could be. Good news the doctors don't know either. That means it is where it always has been...in God's hands. 

You are suffering from the past stress you endured.  But it can get better. Your cancer center will have a nutritionist that has read and understands the principles in "The China Study" and "The Cure" and other books that will help you with good food and rest.

 Having been through just a bit of your tribulations, might I suggest a few possible ways to make it better.

1. Avoid talking about the C-word unless you are talking to your husband, doctors, or God. When you talk about cancer, people will tell you the most horrible stories about this friend dying or a surgery gone wrong. For every bad news story, there are five or more good news stories. Unfortunately we Americans have been trained by the media to speak the negative. You should only listen to the positive from well meaning friends and family. Walk away from the rest.

2. Get joke books, comedy tapes, videos of puppies, and fun movies--laugh as often as you can.  Laughter is the best medicine.

3. Hug the stuffing out of grand-kids, kids, hubby, and friends. Hugs fix blood pressure and stress better than any pills.

4. Knowing that if you are satisfied with your life—blessed with those you love—each day will get better no matter what the clinical statements may be.

5. MOST IMPORTANT It is okay to be mad, angry, depressed, weepy, grumpy, difficult, or unresponsive. This is your body and your reaction. So yell, scream, cry, beat your pillow, and pout if you want. But remember your smile will melt those around you—even strangers—into loving support every time.

God bless you and everyone in your world. I pray for the best possible life for you and your family.

Seven Husbands

Last Sunday’s sermon reminded me of a conversation I had with Mom not long after Paul died. I've been married several times before and engaged a lot. Actually my marital track record was beginning to look like Elizabeth Taylor or Zsa Zsa Gabor’s BP—before Paul. The problem—I said yes when I meant no then ran when awful got worse.

 In reality, all my previous relationships added together did not total three years. Pathetic considering I met Paul at age thirty-one and stayed with him twenty-nine years.

The conversation with Mom went like this…

“Do you think Paul will be my husband in heaven?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mom said flatly. “The rest of them won’t be there any way.”

Okay that was funny. Not true but funny. I laughed then felt a bit guilty.

We had both forgotten Luke 20:27-38—the passage Pastor Murphy sermonized last Sunday. The story was about the widow who married her husband’s brother who dies, then marries the next brother who dies and so on for a total of seven husbands. The Sadducees wanted to know whose wife would she be in the afterlife? Jesus said, “Those who belong to this age marry and are given in marriage; but those who are considered worthy of a place in that age and in the resurrection from the dead neither marry nor are given in marriage.” In heaven, we are made different. Human rules don’t apply. So this grief and longing will not last either.  

Till then I wake up, breathe, and move on. 

Hurrah!

I have permission to use "Dante's Prayer" in "Four Broads and an Irish Wake."  I will be publishing this week.

Loreena McKennitt

My day consisted of editing, rewriting, and formatting. I turned Four Broads and an Irish Wake into a book. Well a self published one. I am printing copies as my Christmas letter/gift for my family. After printing and reviewing four copies that were called “FINAL,” I think it’s done. 

The last step was to type: “Copyright © 2013 by Pamela Pimental. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever…” As I typed I realized that I had part of Loreena McKennitt’s Dante’s Prayer in the story. Not that this is going to be a best seller or even circulated but if I am trying to protect my intellectual property should I ask permission to use hers? 

So I googled “Loreena McKennitt” and “permission.” Her record company in Canada popped up along with an email address for intellectual property. Let me say that again. In seconds I had contact with an international star’s business manager. I find this exhilarating. An age of instant information makes my heart sing.

Years ago, I wrote a book Rosanne and Me. As a period piece in the fifties, I scrounged around libraries and used book stores to find prices, name brands, styles, and the like to keep the story authentic. It was a monumental task. Now Google or Bing or Ask, information is yours.

Now I wait to see how fast Ms. McKennitt’s business department returns emails. I bet it is faster than snail mail or fax. Yes?

Another Widow

An acquaintance of mine became a widow last week. Her husband died on a Friday. The next day she was at work. I was amazed. I did approach her and offer my condolences. Eventually, I told her that I was awe-struck that she could handle going on with life as well as she did. Myself—pretty much a basket case for almost two years.

She said, “I lost three children and my first husband. I guess I am use to death…even if that is possible.”

I don’t know if you can be use to death. I do know that no two people ever handle loss in the same way. Your moccasins will not fit me well enough to walk a mile in them. 

Leaf Blowers

  At least twice a week, I travel up and down Madison Avenue. At least once a week, I watch the gardeners of retail outlets blow leaves, trash, and grass clippings into the street.  Now I don’t know if they actually go back into a busy six lane byway and herd the stuff back into a pile. I suspect not. 
  Therefore my understanding is that they are paid to clear out the parking lots of loose debris. Wait one week for everything that was in the street to blow back into the lot and then do it again. 
  Sounds like job security to me. 

Last Weekend

Spectacular weekend. No I didn't do anything special. I did however get my list of weekend chores completed. Things like—filling the bird feeder, polishing shoes, sealing the tile in the shower—that kind of stuff.  I finished grocery shopping, went to church, had dinner with Mom, watch a recorded show, and found time to write.

  Sounds ordinary. It was. Ordinary is new for me. Not since chemotherapy started, over a year ago, have I had the kind of weekend described above. Two weeks before, I went to Apple Hill on Saturday and then became too sick on Sunday to go anywhere. In September, I scheduled twenty minute naps throughout the day just to function. Six months prior, I did not function. I worked and slept, occasionally eating.

Today, I am almost, but not completely, normal. Well normal for me. The result is a small feeling of—dare I say—happiness. To me I have had a profound revelation that my happiness is tied into how many active hours of life that I can squeeze into a day. So many years I have believed that the feeling of blessedness related to my attitude, other people, events, things, and the weather.

It is no surprise to anyone that knows me that I am a miserable and obnoxious sick person.  Those of you that can rise above a devastating illness and wear a smile, I salute you. I expect more out of breathing in and out. I expect a strong healthy body. When I lost my strength, my health, and cognitive capabilities, I nearly did not fight the good fight.

I am thankful I am finding me again.