Swimming Suit Shopping… For My Daughter, That Is

There are not many things in this life that I despise.  Dread.  Detest.  (Trying to avoid the “hate” word for my younger readers, here.)  But there are a few.  Here’s my short list:

·         Preparing my taxes every February and March

·         Dental work without anesthesia

·         Getting my lip waxed

·         Strident preachers

·         An I.V. that is inserted at the wrong angle

·         Picking up dog poop out of the yard after it’s rained for a week

·         Shopping for my bathing suit every year

(I think I may have just broken out in hives writing this list.)

But there is ONE thing that tops them ALL – swimming suit shopping with my teenage daughter.   And today was that day.

Let’s make a couple things clear.  First: I am usually a reasonable, flexible and fair mother.  I want (and have generally promoted) open dialogue with my children.  I have always been open to a fairly significant degree of influence from my kids.  Second:  My kids would generally agree with this assessment.

But EVERYTHING changes each spring when it’s time to shop for Lizzie’s swimming suit.   Strangely, the previous 364 days of the year cease to matter.  They are forgotten.  Discarded.  I become a monster.  A control freak.  Hyper-conservative.  A destroyer of all teenage social acceptability.   An oppressive dictator.  A mother who understands absolutely NOTHING about fashion, being 16 years old, life or the universe in general. 

I can accept this barrage of accusations that call into question my sterling character.  You know why?  Because years ago – for one day each spring – my mother morphed into that same unreasonable, crazy person.

Just a quick question:  Does not the word “SUIT” (as in “bathing SUIT”) imply the use of actual fabric, not just thread?? 

Just checkin’.

The Real "Me"?

Things are not completely as they seem.

It has been over 10 months since my first cancer surgery.

It has been almost 6 months since my second.

It has been over 4 months since radioactive treatment.

A lot of people are aware of my normal, everyday routine.  And that routine looks a lot like my “before cancer” days.

I go to work.

I am very happy at my work.

I work hard.

I banter with the barista in my local coffee shop.

I appear to have more social and relational energy than sorority girls half my age.

I throw a BIG birthday bash for my 16 year old.

I yell instructions at kids in the Green Room all week at my daughter’s theater.

I really tick off my daughter by a tough parenting decision.

I laugh with my daughter about high schooler’s antics over a spaghetti lunch.

I chat with friends about professional challenges and joys in this stage of our life.

I fly to San Diego with my husband for his work conference.

I am cheerful and sassy.

And then people tell me I am looking good.  Healthy.  Happy.

If I’m doing all this stuff (and look so dang good!), my cancer recovery is going fine.  Right??  Well, this is what they see.  And what they see is true. This is the real “me”.  I am not faking it.

Here is what a lot of people are NOT aware of:

I still sleep 10 to 12 hours a night at least 3 nights a week. 

I often stay in bed for a few more hours after I wake up on those following mornings.

I sometimes feel unsafe to drive I am so fatigued.

I consistently fight a frustrating mental fog.

I have very fragile coping skills. (Poop!)

I struggle to return emails and phone calls.

I am overwhelmed with some of the basics of life.

I feel a bit panicky if I feel even a mild time crunch.

I am pulled deeply into a cocoon of protective reserve.

I live in a posture of measuring and guarding any available shred of energy or vitality.

I am weak.

I do not like this second list.  I am embarrassed by it.  Very few people experience me in this way.  But it is also the real “me” during this season of my life.       

Living my life with integrity and raw honesty are inexpressibly high values.  By nature, I am an open person.  Why, then, do I struggle to display the second list of this temporary real “me”?   I’ll tell you why.  Because it is just plain easier to display the first list.  Easier by far.  Both for me and for others. I function better and feel happier, people are more comfortable and frankly, it’s not always appropriate for me to vomit my latest discouragement onto the next poor, unsuspecting soul who dares inquire.

And here’s another thing: the longevity factor.  After this many months, to consistently voice my chronic discomfort gets OLD.  Both for me AND the listener.  It’s been MONTHS, people!  Months of medical updates.  Months of some good news and a lot of bad news.  Months of kind support offered and taken.  Months of feeling crappy and wanting desperately to say, “I feel great! Thank you for asking.”  Months of friends waiting to hear the same. It gets so very old – like an old scratched 33 album when the needle gets stuck.

So I go through my days looking and acting “normal”.  (*insert smart aleck comment here*)  And a part of me is deeply grateful for the ability to do so. And part of me wants to shout to the world that things are not completely as they seem. (And maybe this blog is my own personal shout out!)

And I know I am NOT alone.

What about my dear friend who lost her husband 2 years ago and everyone thinks she should be over it and start dating again?  What about my delightful former student who pastors a small, rural church and no one knows how disillusioned and painfully close to resignation he is?  What about my outwardly well adjusted, professionally successful friend who has told me she has lost all hope and no one in her world realizes that she has a plan, a means and a clear intent to take her own life?  What about my friend who is profoundly scarred by cruelty from church leadership and no one knows that she can’t re-enter a church without involuntarily feeling sick to her stomach? What about my friend who lives with the chronic, painful affects of MS and rarely mentions the toll it takes?  What about the friend who I go to church with who’s perfectly kept secret is that her husband had an affair 4 years ago and she’s still not sure if marriage will make it?

Here is what I know:

Everyone – and I mean everyone – has unseen pain. 

Pain – emotional, physical and spiritual – can take a long, long time to heal. 

Genuine suffering is rarely public.

In my public life, things are not completely as they seem. 

And you know, after writing this, I believe I feel a bit more normal!  (*insert second smart aleck comment here*)

The Sweet 16 Party – Why Did I Do It?

It is noon on Monday.

I am lying in bed exhausted and totally spent.  It is not the day after my daughter’s elaborate, pull-out-all-the-stops Sweet 16 Party – it is the SECOND day after. 

My feet still hurt.  

My back still aches.  

This is day two of being utterly exhausted and shaky.

I expended way, WAY too much energy.

I haven’t put out this much adrenaline this whole year of recovery.

We overspent on food and decorations.

We overspent.  Period.

I think I’ve been hit by a train.

(Dang!  Sometimes it just feels good to whine!)  

Why did I do it??

Let me see…

My daughter’s last year has been fraught with anxiety, sadness, turmoil, sickness, fear, confusion, dashed hopes, and grief.  This sounds very dark as I write it. But I know it is no exaggeration. For sure, there have been some bright spots, but it is clear to her, our whole family and those close to her that she has never before (in her 16 short years) experienced a year even close to this painful.  None of us will look back with nostalgia at her 15^th year.

Why did I do it?

Maybe the party was a passage to a new (and happier more hopeful) year…

Maybe it was an attempt at compensation – trying to balance the scales…

Maybe it was a way to reminder her how incredibly proud I am of her for enduring this year and actually growing leaps and bounds through it…

Maybe it was a thank you to her for all the help she has been this last year when I was too sick to help her in the way I really wanted to…

Maybe it was a strong affirmation of the amazingly good choices she makes in her friendships…

Maybe it was a desire to honor those friends who have stayed so close and supportive…

It was all these things. 

Why did I do it?

Because for my daughter, dancing is the cure for just about everything!

Because “besties” like these don’t grow on trees!

Because it is clear our daughter loves us sooooo much!

Because helium is just plain FUN!

Because this I want this group of guys in my daughter’s life.  Really.

Because these smiles make me happy.

Because this smile makes me extremely happy.

Her big birthday celebration for NEXT YEAR?? 

Papa Murphys.

A DVD. 

That’s it.

Excuse Me, Could You Help Me, Please?

I am a people helper.  And I do not mean this in an entirely nice way.  I mean, really – look at the completely co-dependent profession I have chosen!  

I am happy helping people.  Very happy.  Sometimes a bit too happy. 

This last year I have not helped people much – at all.  Two major surgeries, cancer treatment in isolation, my precious daughter fighting for survival emotionally, a high school switch mid school year, 2 cars totaled, and unstable thyroid levels have NOT been conducive to a lot of “giving” on my part.  It has required an excruciating amount of “taking”.

I have had to ask for help.  Sometimes I haven’t asked for help, but people have helped me.

They have cooked me dozens of meals.

They have cleaned my house. *cringe*

They have done yard work for our family.

They have stayed with me and waited on me after surgery.

They have let my daughter hang at their home when life felt overwhelming for her.

They have given my daughter rides.

They have helped me wrap my family’s Christmas presents.

They have prepared special “iodine free” food for my treatment.

They have taken up slack for theater responsibilities I couldn’t maintain.

They have helped me set up my blog.

They have loaned me DVDs.

They have given our family significant financial help.

They have provided me with free and reduced cost health resources.

They have checked in on me.

They have prayed.

They have prayed some more. *uncomfortably humbled*

They have listened as I sobbed out my sometimes overwhelming fears and grief.

THIS is the short list.  And then last night, our dear “adopted daughter” Brookie saved my bacon by diving in and taking over details of Elizabeth’s Sweet 16 birthday party.

There is a part of me that is more deeply grateful than I will ever be able to express.  We would NOT have made it through this last year without this gracious help.  Literally.

And there is a part of me that wants to crawl out of my skin with discomfort and resistance to all that help.  I would like to see this reaction of mine as a type of noble self-sufficiency, a “servant’s heart”, a highly respectable character quality of being a “giving” person.  Unfortunately, it’s not.   

Here’s the honest truth:  I don’t like feeling that vulnerable. Needing is a very naked place.  I don’t like feeling like I owe people.  (Showing my sickness here, people.) I want the scales to be tipped in my favor. I want the position of protection in the relationship.  And if I’m the giver, I am much safer.  If I am helping others, I am liked, needed, appreciated, approved, valuable and respected.  (Or at least that’s the old story I have unknowingly told myself.)   If I am the taker, then I am at risk and exposed.  People will see me as weak (and somewhat pathetic). They will see me as a user.  They will weary of my needs and then leave.  (Yet more of this interesting story.)

I think I need to tell myself a new story.  A truer story.

Maybe it goes like this:  I have the rich and undeserved blessing of deep friendships in my life that have lasted months, years, and decades.  Most of these people are comfortable with being asked for help.  Many of them have said they want to help.  Some of them might actually feel a certain degree of blessing by helping me.  (Hmm… It could happen.  I’ve felt that before.)

And maybe the story needs to contain the truth that I am safe in most of my most important friendships even when I have very little, if nothing to offer.  In this story I would develop a more secure humility and receive love and support with a gracious ease.  Secure in my own person even when the scales are imbalanced and I am in need.  Grounded in the value God has placed on my life even when I can’t give anything.

I am living more in this new story than I used to.  I still have a long way to go (as this last year has so painfully and helpfully pointed out).  

I am happy helping people.  Very happy.  Sometimes (still) a bit too happy.  But maybe I can help with increasingly purer motives and receive the love and support offered me with a little more security, humility and grace.

And here’s a thought: Maybe those I “help” sometimes struggle with the same conflicted, uncomfortable feelings that have surfaced in me.

A Gratifyingly “Mundane” Mother’s Day

It’s Monday, but Mother’s Day is still in the air.

One of my friends spent Mother’s Day castrating her 2 baby goats.  She writes on her blog (and she’s no newbie blogger like me), “They both walked pretty funny at first. But you know, who wouldn’t?”  THAT is funny.  How can my blog on Mother’s Day EVEN compare with that?? I castrated no baby goats, for heaven’s sake!

Mother’s Day in our family is generally a very predictable routine… and one without a lot of bells and whistles.  Ya know, come to think of it, it could actually look really boring from the outside looking in.  This year my husband gave me my gift early.  My daughter told me my Mother’s Day present would be late.  Panda Express for lunch. My mom and dad came over about 3:00.  We watched a movie. We played a table game.  On top of everything, I forgot to buy a card for my mom.  (Yes, forgot. Go ahead, be horrified.)

Pretty boring? A letdown?

Not even a little. 

I LOVE my husband’s early Mother’s Day gift – my favorite (fairly expensive) concentrated lavender bubble bath!!

My 16 year old daughter Elizabeth was a part of the mix almost the whole day – and with a great attitude, might I add.  (And for those of you having raised 16 year olds, you get that this is a very big deal.)

My wonderful step-daughter Janee wrote to me on facebook, “Thanks for all the greatness you've instilled in me”.  (Wow. Um.  How do you top that for Mother’s Day??)

My dear step-son Isaac tried to call 3 times just to try to get in touch with me (finally connecting on the third try). After the long and involved history of our relationship, this is a priceless Mother’s Day gift.

My day was not colored with grief over losing a mom, the pain of infertility, an irreparable relationship with a mother or child or any number of other reasons a huge number of women rightfully dread this day.  I think about this every Mother’s Day.

And here is the big thing – I actually LIKE my mom!  (OK Dad, you too, but it’s not Father’s Day yet!)  Let me tell you, in my profession, you do NOT forget what a minor miracle this is!!  I don’t have to dig to find multiple things that I can appreciate and honor.  They are right there, visible to everybody.

This was NOT a boring Mother’s Day.

I’m telling you, a viewing of Tangled (LOVE the horse in that movie!!), 3 games of loud, raucous Yatzee (with laughter at inappropriate comments) and hanging out with a family I truly like made for one delightful Mother’s Day!  (Special note: Both moms present won 1 game each. Oh yeah.)

So.  I ate no spectacular dinner. I went to no exotic location.  I received no flowers, chocolates or diamonds.  I castrated no goats. (Does that last sentence fit?)

My Mother’s Day:  Warm. Content.  Fun.  And gratifyingly “mundane”. 

My First Blog

Something is changing.

I have written very little this last year.  Very little.  (And for those of you who know me that is a significant shift in a decidedly predictable routine.) I have had little to say.  My internal world was stripped to the bare, bare essentials in my fight with cancer and all the other random and unwanted smack-downs our family has experienced recently. 

But guess what.  Something is changing.

I feel ready to write again.  AND – for the first time – BLOG.  (My dear husband refers to blogging affectionately as an “exercise in narcissism” – or something like that.  I would prefer to think of my initiative in verbal expression as “self-confidence”… “a strong self image”… “a drive toward creative expression”… “a lofty achievement in modern communication” … SOMETHING a bit more noble than narcissism, please.) 

This change makes me happy.  It makes me think that I may…MAY (cautious with hope here, folks) be emerging from a long tunnel of soul anesthesia that has been essential for my recovery.  Essential.  But not welcome long term. It will be delightful to have a few interested people track with me as I re-enter the land of the living.

This blog will cover the happy, the sad, the exhilarating, the mundane, the crazy, the sane, the funny, the intense, the human, the divine, the internal musings, the external events… because this blog will cover my life and my observations about life. 

MY life. MY observations.

Clearly no narcissism in THIS blog.  Nuh-uh.