Twins

I have been thinking a lot lately about my father. It's funny how, as I endure the journey into my psyche that I would mostly rather skip, he comes creeping in. And unfortunately, when my counselor asks about him, my recollections are pretty rotten: his drunken breath, his volatile anger, my desperate fear and loneliness as a little child and even, later, as an adult.

But yesterday, as my thoughts turned often to the Trade Center tragedy, my remembrances of my father were good ones. For if any person symbolized New York City to me, it was him. My memories of the city are intertwined with my understanding of who he was and would become. In the 60's he imagined himself a hip beatnik writer from Greenwich Village, hobnobbing with some of the most interesting names in modern American literature. Later, he was a cosmopolitan--attending gala affairs with the likes of Henry Kissinger and other heads of state. He was a wise and talented professor of Shakespeare and Chaucer at a city college just steps from the World Trade Center. And always, he was a Yankee fan.

As a little girl, every "night before" of my bi-yearly summer trip to the city was spent wide-eyed, imagining what the magical months held in store for me. I was spoiled rotten with trips into Manhattan for a whirlwind shopping spree at Lord & Taylor for evening dresses and tights and shoes and gloves. These would be followed by excursions to Lincoln Center or the Met for a symphony or a ballet, or up to 42nd Street for a musical or a play.

Every summer, of course, was highlighted by our trips to Yankee Stadium--not in the 80's, when the Yankees stank, but in the mid- to late-seventies, when the team was led by Reggie Jackson, Bobby Murcer, the Red Sox-killing Bucky Dent, and Thurman Munson, the beloved Yankee Captain who was killed in a plane crash in 1979. I was in New York that summer and still have every single newspaper clipping from the days and weeks following his death. I shared the city's mourning for a fallen hero.

Perhaps my most anticipated event, however, was the ritual of our lunch at the World Trade Center, not in the mall on the bottom floor, but at the Windows on the World restaurant on the 107th floor of tower 1, the north tower. After lunch, we would descend all those stories on the express elevator, walk to tower 2, and ascend 1,377 feet to the observation deck. Yes, many times in my life I stood outside, atop one of the tallest buildings in the world, and experienced the city I would always love, the city that would one day break my heart.

When I awoke on the morning of September 11th, 2001, I did something I still do not ever do. I turned on the television. I don't know why. My sister and I had shared a wonderful evening the night before at a Trisha Yearwood concert, and I was feeling happy and hopeful. I cannot tell you--I'm sure I don't have to-- with what shock and grief I was filled by my dawning realization of the events of that day. My first reaction? I took from the top shelf in my closet a box of photographs and unburied every photo I had ever taken on my trips to New York. There they were, those lovely twins in all their glory. What was not seen in those photographs, except by me, was every happy and magical memory I held of what was, in truth, a stormy, angry and ultimately estranged relationship between father and daughter.

For the first time in two years, I was glad my father was dead. This was a loss he could not have borne. Never mind the words that would never be said, the professional sharing that would never take place, the healing that would never happen for either of us. It was good that he had missed this. His heart would have been broken beyond repair. Sometimes I think mine still is.

What exactly has done the damage, however, is difficult to say. A terrible tragedy, a despicable act, befell our nation on 9/11. But it's more than that. Beside every thrilling memory of a little girl in a big city being spoiled by a doting father stands the haunting truth. The embarrassment I felt at a tirade in a restaurant because of cold food. The fear of a violent, drunken anger being turned on me because of a harmless mistake. The desperate knowledge that the summer was three months long and mommy was thousands of miles away, saying over the telephone, "stick it out. You have to stay."

Memory is a tricky thing. When I think of the Twin Towers, I see smoke and fire and destruction. But if I try very hard, on an especially good day, I can imagine the food and the company and the wind in my hair, a little girl in the most magical of all cities, with the world at her feet. Daddy is like this too. I mostly remember hearing him say, "you're a nice-looking kid, but you'll never be a knockout." I feel pain and disappointment and anger. But if I try very hard, on an especially good day, I feel like the daughter I believe he thought I was--a little girl who grew up very much like him. A lover of great literature, an inspiring teacher, a hopeful writer. And of course, always, a Yankee fan.

Sisters

My sister Caroline called from work on Thursday, in tears. She was having a hard day. Who hasn't? But hers was especially well-deserved. Let me tell you a little about her.

Caroline and I are three-and-a-half years apart. She is the older sister. We have no other siblings. She is as crazy about the Angels as I am about the Yanks, which makes us mortal enemies only three or four times a year and, occasionally, during the playoffs. See if we're still speaking after the Angels visit Yankee Stadium for a four-game set this weekend! We are as close as we have ever been, a miracle considering we foiled each other at every turn as teenagers, and she has shared all of my life's most important moments with me.

Caroline goes to church with a couple who, after many different kinds of tries, have been unable to conceive a child. I don't know what this is like; I can only guess it is a devastating kind of loss. Caroline feels this way too. As a labor and delivery nurse, she sees babies born to all kinds of parents. She felt sure this couple would make the very best kind of parents, and so she decided to do something about it.

After much prayer and counsel with her family, she offered to be a surrogate mom for these deserving people, willing to carry a fertilized embryo of their own making. (I personally believe this makes her some sort of angel, on the fast track to glory--what an amazing gift to give!) With grateful hearts, they accepted. For months, Caroline underwent inspections by doctors and injections of all sorts of drugs to prepare for the implantation, which took place about three weeks ago. At that time, two embryos looked quite viable, and it seemed as if the chances were good that there would be a successful pregnancy.

Caroline was on strict bed rest for five days, and a week after that, she saw the doctor for a pregnancy test. We all held our breaths during this week. She had some strange cravings. She felt a little crampy. I was sure her breasts were bigger. We prayed like mad that this couple would be blessed with a baby.

But they were not. Those tiny little embryos didn't make it, didn't find a home, and all suffered terrible defeat. The expense involved in this trial, plus the costs of their many other attempts, makes it unlikely that this couple will be able to try again, at least through "brave new world" techniques such as this one. What a terrible loss.

And so, a week and a half later, Caroline called me in tears. No wonder. I let her talk for a long time, not so much because I'm a great listener but mostly because I kept thinking, "I don't know what to say. God, please give me words to say." She said she didn't know why she still felt so sad. She couldn't understand the terrible injustice of such a lovely couple not being able to become parents. She was mad at God--how could he set them all up for such failure? She felt like she had failed--that somehow this was her fault. And mostly she was confused. How can this be God's plan? What's next?

Ahh--this I get. Being in this place myself right now, I understand. I have to be honest with you here. I don't like it when people say, "this is all in God's plan." This is not especially comforting to me, and I don't say it to others. How do other people know God's plan for me when I have no freaking clue? It just can't be.

And so instead of offering false comfort because I didn't know what else to say, I said, "this sucks." (Steve taught me this honest response to bad news--I like it.) And it does suck, or stink, since my mom reads my blog and doesn't like the word "sucks." How can God leave such nice people childless? What can he possibly be thinking?

I told Caroline that her sadness was justified, that it might last a long time and that it was certainly okay if she felt rotten. I told her this absolutely was not her fault. It isn't anybody's fault--there's no blame to go around. Being a clinician, she is a bit of a science junkie. But science doesn't always work. Even science is not exact. Sometimes life doesn't go the way science says it should.

And her anger at God? Well, that's a good response. Makes more sense than being angry at a doctor, or angry at herself. So what to do when you're angry at God? I pray like a crazy woman. In my silent prayer, I yell. I swear a blue streak. I cry out over my anguish. I say the "f" word. Multiple times. I think he can handle it. I personally think he appreciates my honesty. Because, truth be told, almost all the time I'm thinking, what is the freaking plan? Tell me the plan! I need to understand the plan!

God does have a plan, and our personal failures are a part of it. He will work out all the circumstances of our lives for good. Unfortunately, in the midst of our trials, this is completely impossible to see. This is the faith part. But it's not easy. So mostly what I did on the phone with Caroline was wallow. Heck, I don't know my own plan--I certainly don't know hers. But I do know what it feels like to be sad. To be afraid. To feel isolated by my circumstances. To be alone.

Steve and I are currently caught up in this new show on ABC Family called Kyle XY. I really can't recommend it--the writing is sort of ridiculous and most of what the characters do and say makes me need to make fun of them. But I will share one redeeming scene. The main character, Kyle, who remembers nothing of his past but has super-genius abilities, is feeling sorry for himself, and he is sitting in his stand-alone bathtub, which serves as his bed and place of comfort and safety. He is questioning himself: "Why don't I have a family? Or a birthday? Why can't I remember?" when he is visited by his love interest who declares, "Kyle, you're wallowing!" But she doesn't scold him. She doesn't tell him to cheer up, or get over it, or distract himself by doing something else. She climbs into the bathtub with him. She becomes fellow wallower. And it helps.

Maybe this is one of our roles in life. To say to another, "I can see you're feeling terrible. Let me feel terrible with you." Not to fix, or to smooth over, or to distract, but to share. Maybe rotten-ness gets thinned out, becomes less potent if others take some of it on themselves. It's frightening not to be able to see the plan, but maybe a little less scary if we can find a place of comfort and safety in which to allow ourselves our crummy feelings, whether they be sadness, anger, hurt, fear, or humiliation, and if we can find a fellow wallower to share our toughest times with. I practically never know what to say to people in need, but I do know how to feel sad. We all do. This makes each of us highly skilled in meeting the needs of those around us. It's our job. Even when it only requires us to feel sad, too.

To Caroline, my beautiful sister: I'm sorry. This sucks. And I feel really sad.

Unwritten

Three weeks since I have written. I sort of thought that the last post would be the last post. However, not only was it not a very engaging conclusion to a three-month-long journey, but I also had no way of knowing that my surgery would not mark the end of the road. I have come to suspect that in many ways it is only the beginning.

The last few weeks I have had some intense emotional ups and down, coupled with a murderous anger. The word murderous is a bit hyperbolic, but believe me, there are days when I think I just might be able to kill something, whether it be a plate, a glass, a spider, or a small dog. Serious, scary stuff. As I own, and love like mad, a small dog, my good sense told me, "go see someone. Right away." So this is what I have done. For two weeks I have been seeing a counselor affiliated with our church. His name is Joseph, and he has already been more help to me than I could have known.

According to Joseph, my response has been completely normal. He thinks I have a couple of issues stemming from my illness that he would like to start with. One, he thinks I am suffering from some sort of a post-traumatic shock. Apparently, you don't have to have donned fatigues and shot off missiles to suffer this syndrome. He considers my tumor diagnosis, my illness, and then my brain surgery all forms of trauma. For them to have happened in such rapid succession only increases my response. And the fact that I had handled myself so well, with such peace and hopefulness before my surgery, may have been a form of denial, of putting off the hard work of dealing with such terrifying circumstances. This is what I am doing now, just when I thought it was all over.

He also thinks that my anger is one of the stages of grief. What loss am I grieving? Well, the loss of my plan, of course. I have written many times of how much strength I find in having a plan, in knowing what comes next, and in feeling a sense of control over the direction my life journey takes. But ha! None of this was in my plan. And that makes me mad, gosh darnit! I was happy with my work, was completely in love with my master's classes, was really looking forward to teaching a class at Cal Poly each quarter of this upcoming year. And now, not only has my plan been sidetracked, but I don't even like that plan anymore. I don't feel like doing any of those things. Most days I don't feel like doing anything period. And this lack of motivation, of action, of accomplishment, makes me really angry. This is JUST -- NOT -- ME!

Joseph doesn't believe that being sick is ever in God's plan, either. However, he believes completely that God uses our circumstances for good. And his hunch is that God is trying to get me to sit still. For once. If you know me well, you know that I never sit still. Even when I'm sitting, I'm not still. I fidget and fuss like crazy. So for me to have to be still, and to acknowledge that it's time for me to be quiet (also not a strength of mine) and listen for God's plan rather than rushing around following my own is hard to accept. I really want to scream at the top of my lungs, "WHAT'S THE PLAN, GOD?" But it's not that easy. I'll be more likely to hear if I hush.

And so this is the new me. (That's actually a crock--this is the me I think I need to be and am trying hard to think about considering wanting to become!) I want to become a girl who doesn't need to know the plan. The girl who can find freedom in looking at blank pages, pen poised above them, ready to write about the joys of my life as they are occurring, not when they are only in the planning stages. How many times we make plans, only to see them fizzle. Better to see where life takes us, and be willing to go there on a moment's notice. What (hypothetical) fun. Remember, this isn't me yet!

I am reminded of a song that you have probably all heard. When I first heard it almost a year ago, in the soundtrack of the movie Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, I thought "Yes! Yes! Yes! This is the song I will use to introduce my senior writing project to my students in May." I thought it would be my little secret that I could share with them. Little did I know that it would play four times an hour on every radio station in Los Angeles for months and months and that my students would be sick of it by the time May rolled around. (They were also pretty sick of school in general and writing in specific, but they humored me!) In spite of its gross overplay, the lyrics still hold truths that speak to me and that have become even more meaningful in light of my hoped-for becoming.

This is "Unwritten," by Natasha Bedingfield.

I am unwritten,
Can't read my mind
I'm undefined
I'm just beginning
The pen's in my hand
Ending unplanned

Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words
That you could not find
Reaching for something in the distance
So close you can almost taste it
Release your inhibitions

Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in
No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins
The rest is still unwritten

I break tradition
Sometimes my tries
Are outside the lines
We've been conditioned
To not make mistakes
But I can't live that way

Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words
That you could not find
Reaching for something in the distance
So close you can almost taste it
Release your inhibitions

Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in
No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins
The rest is still unwritten

As a self-proclaimed (and generally acknowledged) nerd when it comes to literature and words and such, I could charm you with a line-by-line exposition. I'll spare you. But I do want to tell you that the idea of life as a series of blank pages, a book that has yet to be written, appeals to the English-teacher-person in me, and the thought that only I can do the writing in my book--oh yes! This speaks to me as a human being. This is my life. I must feel the rain in my life, just as only I can really experience my difficult times. But in the same way, only I can feel the sun on my face in just the way I should. It's okay that I'm undefined. That I make mistakes along the way. That I don't know what will be written on the not-yet-experienced pages of my life. This doesn't mean I have no say in how I will respond to the choices with which I'm presented; it just means that I don't have to know today what I will choose tomorrow. It's okay that I don't know the plan.

And my favorite part? Ahh, even if I don't have a plan, I have a voice. A singular one. And if I don't speak my thoughts, write out my life, those words won't get said. Ever. It is this notion that I most wanted my students to leave high school thinking about. Their lives are their own to live. And if they don't live them to the fullest, taking advantage of every opportunity they meet, the world will be a little less wonderful because of their absence. But this holds true for us, too. Every day we have the chance to shout our lives at the top of our lungs. Even in our fear, our worry, our sadness and anger, we should do this. The world will miss us if we don't.

Scars

I have to admit, I have been feeling sort of sorry for myself lately. I keep wondering, "Why did all this bad stuff have to happen to me?" I feel a little lost. What do I do now, when I don't feel like doing anything? What do I make of this inertia I'm experiencing? I'm reading, I'm gardening, I'm watching baseball, but I don't want to do another single thing. I can't even conceive of how to get excited about teaching in the fall--another whole year? Ugh! And more master's classes? Forget about it!

But even though I pay almost no attention to the daily news, it's impossible not to hear about people whose lives are a whole lot worse than mine. Just yesterday, I read an article about the malaria that erases thousands of lives a minute on the African continent. Zack told me about a firefighter who was burned over 95% of his body, has skin only on his back, and has to have expanders under that skin to stretch it so that it can be harvested to cover other parts of his body. The day of my surgery, in the parking lot of the very hospital where I was a patient, a man shot to death his wife and then killed himself, orphaning three young children. At my postop appointment on Wednesday, Steve and I passed a young man with only one leg, the other most likely taken by cancer. So who am I to complain? Where does my suffering rank on this list? Worse than some, better than others, better than practically everyone in the world who daily fights hunger, war, disease?

But I feel like complaining. I didn't like being shown a brain tumor on my MRI. I didn't like being sick and hospitalized. I didn't like having brain surgery. I didn't like having thirty metal staples removed from my head. I don't like this big scabby scar that crosses the top of my head so that I can't brush or blow-dry my hair. I don't like the fear my children must have been feeling, the anxiety Steve has surely felt almost nonstop for four months now. I don't like the attention I'm getting for having gotten sick. Don't get me wrong, I like attention. But notice my achievements, recognize my accomplishments. That's the kind of attention I like.

And then yesterday, in looking through my "drafts" folder in gmail, I came across a quote I had emailed to myself back in May. I must have found a comfort in these words that made me want to save them: "God will not look you over for medals, degrees or diplomas, but for scars" (Elbert Hubbard, 1856-1915). If this is true, then I have a doozy. Or at least, I will have. Right now I have a sort of crusty, scabby, gross mess.

But it's not just this scar that God can see. He knows every hurt, every failure, every mistake, misstep and miscalculation. If I am scarred on the outside, and I now am, I am even more scarred on the inside, and it is these scars that make me lovable to God. He sees, he acknowledges, he recognizes, and he loves.

His love is the great equalizer. To him, all suffering is equally bad, completely unlike what he planned for us. He doesn't rank our sorrows and grieve accordingly. He sees the hurts of all mankind, and he grieves for all. And then he loves, and all hurts are immediately given the power to bring healing and growth to those who hurt. Every wound, no matter how great or small, grieves God. To him, every scar is a badge, a symbol of a battle fought, no matter whether won or lost.

I think this is how he sees sin, too. Every sin, no matter how great or small, is the same to God. Each has power and potentiality. Sin has the power to separate us from God, as we hide in our shame and humiliation. But it also has the potential to bring us back, to cause us to seek God in our desire for forgiveness and reconciliation. So even as I wallow in self-pity, certainly a sin, God promises a return. My spirit will soon be renewed, my anxiousness will disappear. My motivation will resurface. My former peace, which seems to have utterly abandoned me, will return.

In the 16th chapter of his gospel, John writes of a conversation Jesus had with his disciples in which he explained that he would no longer use figures of speech or stories to illustrate his concepts, but that he would speak plainly to reveal his truth. When they said, "Ah! Now we get it--now we understand who you are!" Jesus replied, "Do you finally believe?...I've told you all this so that trusting me, you will be unshakable and assured, deeply at peace. In this godless world you will continue to experience difficulties. But take heart! I've conquered the world" (v. 25-33).

With these words, Christ promises peace. He does not promise ease, or freedom from suffering, illness, injury, or even death. But he does promise peace to those who believe he is, indeed, in charge. I sure could use some peace right now. Thank God I know where to find it.

A Couple of Scares and a Setback

First off, let me thank Michael J. for stopping by City of Hope on Wednesday. I appreciated the flowers and also the spirited discussion of Che Guevara and the CIA. It was nice to think about something besides my health for a little while. Thank you also to Doris and Ralph for the fruit basket which included iced oatmeal cookies, my favorite. Thank you for remembering!

I've already told you that on Saturday I was able to shower for the first time. No sooner had I gotten out of the shower when Dr. Badie called and said, "Now I told you you could shower tomorrow, right?" I replied with, "No! You said Saturday and I already have!" I went on to explain that showering was a nerve-wracking experience, that it took every ounce of willpower I had to actually put my incision under the water. A whole host of what-ifs played through my mind. I really had to trust that Dr. Badie knew his stuff. But I did, he does, and said shower was completed.

On Sunday I showered again, having invited Mom and LeRoy over for Father's Day (thanks, Tracy, for the steaks!), believing that all would go as well as it had the day before. When I got out of the shower on Sunday, however, I touched the top of my head and heard a squishing sound. I kid you not! Squish! Squish! went my head right at the incision site! Oh! This didn't seem good at all! I imagined the worst, of course--shower water had gotten into the wound, a virulent infection was already sprouting its ugly head inside mine, and I would be hospitalized within hours, again!

When an hour later I heard it again, Steve insisted that I call the triage nurse at City of Hope. She was clearly quite taken aback--I'm not sure she had ever heard a brain surgery patient telling her that her brain was squishing--but she promised to call the doctor and call us right back. She did call back, within about five minutes, explaining that Dr. Badie had answered her page right away and that I shouldn't worry. It was only air! Apparently at surgery some air enters into the space between the bone and brain and between the scalp and the bone. This is quite normal, and I will hear all sorts of strange crunches and crackles and yes, squishes, for a few weeks at least. Bizarre!

On Monday morning, Dr. Badie called me himself to reassure me of all the nurse had said. Have I told you how much I love this surgeon? His personal attentiveness is amazing and very appreciated. Anyway, all appeared okay.

On Tuesday, however, as I was getting ready to walk the dog (just around our little block--don't worry!), I found that I had to repeat the same action twice to pick up the keys off the counter. Weird. Then, when I was attempting to put my wild, bushy (un-blow-dried) hair into the back of a Yankees cap, as I am not to go out in sunshine without a hat, I could hardly get my left hand to cooperate at all. When I looked down at it, I noticed that the first two fingers and the thumb were strangely contorted, and that I had no control at all over their movement. Bring the squishing back! This seemed worse!

So what did I do? I walked the dog, of course! I had already told her we were going, she had already done her leaping, pirouetting dance in preparation, and she's just so cute--I couldn't let her down. As I walked, however, I realized that although I gradually began to gain control over my fingers, my whole left hand was completely numb. After about fifteen minutes, the sensation came back and I seemed perfectly normal. Against Mom and Steve's advice, I did not call the nurse. I rationalized that I was fine, and promised that if it happened again, I would call.

Well, it did happen again, in the middle of the night, and still I did not call. This was not wise. I am having all sorts of pain in my right hand and arm, and I have decided to wait until I see Dr. Badie on Wednesday to ask about this, one reason being that my right hand is bothering me, and brain effects from surgery would most likely be seen on the left side, opposite of the tumor site. But now this was the left side!

I waited to call, in fact, until 4:30 Wednesday afternoon, after another episode, much scarier and more dramatic. It started in a way similar to the other two, with the fingers becoming a claw, unable to be moved by me. Then the numbness in the hand started, but this time it was followed by numbness in the toes, and then the foot and then the left leg. Then I began to feel numbness in the bones of my face, especially in the orbit around the left eye and in the jaw. When I looked in the mirror, there was an obvious droop on the left side, and when I smiled, only the right side responded. Spooky.

Only Zack was home with me, so I went into his bedroom to be sure he was seeing what I was seeing. I asked him about my smile, and he said, "talk normally." I told him that I was and he asked me to say something else. By this time, even I could hear that there was clearly something wrong with my speech, not a slurring exactly, but more a slowing. I was also having difficulty thinking of what I wanted to say and then actually saying it. When I asked Zack to describe what I sounded like, he said, "like a person who knows how to speak but isn't very good at it."

This whole episode lasted about twenty minutes. When I had regained normal speech, I called the nurse, and Dr. Badie called me back about two minutes later. He was very concerned and told me he was sure these occurrences were actually partial seizures, probably caused by the movement of the brain. You see, when the tumor was removed, it left a void that will eventually be replaced by brain tissue that is taking back its residence now that the invader has been vanquished. However, the brain responds to this movement as it does to any foreign activity--with increased electrical output, which causes seizures. Dr. Badie had me take a dose of Dilantin right away and asked that I up my nightly dose from three pills to four, 400 mg. In addition, he suggested that I would need to be on the Dilantin for much longer than originally planned, maybe as much as three months.

This is depressing. I was handling 300 mg of Dilantin quite well, with no perceivable effects, but adding 100 mg to the dose is like adding 1000. I can really tell the difference. I am more sleepy, more woozy, and much less steady on my feet. Suddenly, the doctor's precautions not to drive and not to go up or down stairs by myself make a lot of sense. In addition, being on the Dilantin is what has been keeping me from being able to drive, so now it is possible that I will not be driving again until well into September. And I already feel so housebound!

However, even in these circumstances, I can see huge positives--these seizures are relatively mild. I have warning of their arrival. I remain conscious. And although I am a little wiped out afterwards, I can still do the same things I was doing before Tuesday. What we do not want is for me to have a grand mal seizure, which would be devastating. It would be extremely scary for the kids, who would most likely be home with me, it would require hospital observation, and it would guarantee a loss of driving privileges for at least a year. So please continue to pray for me, that God's hand would be on me and also on Dr. Badie who will be working to find the right dose of Dilantin and/or other anti-epileptics. I need lots of patience, so pray for that, too. And pray for Steve and my children, especially for Zack who was a little freaked out on Wednesday and probably needs some reassurance.

God is faithful, and he will see through to completion the work he has started in me. Just a quick reminder from the old hymnal--this one's my favorite.

Great is thy faithfulness, O God my Father;
there is no shadow of turning with thee;
thou changest not, thy compassions, they fail not;
as thou hast been thou forever will be.

Great is thy faithfulness! Great is thy faithfulness!
Morning by morning new mercies I see;
all I have needed thy hand hath provided;
great is thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me!

Summer and winter and springtime and harvest,
sun, moon and stars in their courses above
join with all nature in manifold witness
to thy great faithfulness, mercy and love.

Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth
thy own dear presence to cheer and to guide;
strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow,
blessings all mine, with ten thousand beside!

Closers, for lack of a better title

Mariano Rivera has just recorded the last out of a 9-7 Yankees win. I only bring this up because this is just the second game in a week that they have won. I feel somehow responsible. I'm one of those goofy fans who thinks that their presence, even if only in front of the television, actually has the ability to influence the outcome of the game. And as you know, I have been a bit busy this week.

But where to start? Hmm. I guess I'll take you back to the morning of surgery. I know Steve revealed what the day was like for him; it was a little different for me. I slept surprisingly well the night before surgery, and I awoke in the morning, early and sleepy but ready. We got to the hospital at six, and before long several of our friends and family members were there with us. After I had been officially admitted, I was taken back to preop all by myself, and after I had changed and gotten settled, Steve was able to come in and wait with me.

Both the surgeon and the anesthesiologist came and visited with us in the preop area. At about 7:40, I said goodbye to Steve and was taken to the surgery room. I think they had given me something to relax me, but I really can't remember. I do know that I was remarkably calm. I felt really ready, not out of resignation but more in the excitement of getting past this place and to the next one.

In the operating room, I joked with the personnel there: "everyone told me to remind you that my tumor is on the right side of my head!" The nurse just pointed to my right, where there were four television monitors arranged in a square, each showing a different view of my head, tumor eerily visible. I took a quick look around, was quite impressed with the state-of-the-art facility (even though I had no idea what I was looking at!), and that is the last thing I remember. I have had general anesthesia on two other occasions, and each time, I was told to count backwards from 100, a sort of warning. Not this time! I was simply out. Too bad, because I had really wanted to check out that room!

When I awoke, the first thing I saw was Steve's face. However, I did have a sort of impression of wakefulness before that, as it was quite a long time after the surgery was over before I was actually fully aware--maybe as much as two hours. My next impression was of being moved from a gurney to a hospital bed, but I remember nothing of the trip there. I said to someone, "Is this ICU?" and that was when I learned I had been taken to a regular room, ICU being unnecessary because of the ease of the operation. This was good news.

My stay was pretty unremarkable, I guess. Steve has covered that well in his blog. I did have a hard time sleeping in the hospital because of nausea, probably related to either the morphine or the vicodin or both. Starting Thurday, I went cold turkey to regular strength Tylenol and did pretty well with that. At home, I'm using Motrin and doing really well. I have to watch the clock, however, because if I wait until I feel pain to take medication, I end up hurting as I wait for the effects.

My incision is sort of a medical marvel. Even though I have 28 metal staples in my head, in a a row approximately five inches long, I was able to shower and wash my hair on Saturday, only four days after surgery. Good news for all of you who had to be near me during that time. Boy, was my hair skanky. The staples are all in a tidy row, evenly spaced. And everyone has been amazed at how little hair was shaved away. Like Mariano, Dr. Badie is some kind of closer!

One funny episode occurred on Wednesday night. My nurse that night, Sherri, came in at about 9:30, and I was watching the end of the Angels game. We chatted a little about baseball, and I told her that the Angels were actually my sister's team and that I was watching the game for her. I told her my team was the Yankees. She said that her team was the Seattle Mariners, but that her favorite player had been Randy Johnson. As most people know, he is now a New York Yankee, although there are many days when we would like to give him back! I recounted to Sherri how the Yankees, the Angels and the Mariners had done over the past few days, and she said, "Wait a minute. Wasn't your surgery yesterday?" and I asked what day of the week it was. When she told me it was Wednesday, I said, "Yes, yesterday." She just shook her head and replied, "how can you possibly know baseball scores for three different teams the day after brain surgery?" What can I say? I guess we just naturally pay attention to those things that matter most.

That being said, I would like to give a heartfelt thank you to those people in my life who matter most. Thank you so much to all of you who were with me in the hospital: Steve, Mom and LeRoy, Caroline and Kiersten, Aunt Carol, Vicky, Mom and Dad Elder, and Steve's sister Kari--your presence was an encouragement to me and I felt embraced by so much love. Thank you to Glenn for bringing my goofball kids to visit on Wednesday--that really cheered me up. I especially enjoyed our play with the inhalation spirometer. Good times. Thank you to everyone who has brought food and in other ways provided for our family, including our good Rowland friends (Kathy, Stephanie, Amalia, Ana, Jessica, Miriam, Sandi, Erin, Emily, Tracy, Linda, and many others), and to Laura for her spirit-lifting visit on Monday. To those of you who are still planning to cook for and feed us, thank you too. Not having to shop or cook has been a HUGE help to both Steve and me. Thank you to Craig, Jeff and Alicia for covering my classes and taking good care of my kids. A very warm thank you to our friends Dan and Marlene for a restful weekend away and an amazing meal at Arnold Palmer's restaurant in the US Open room! A special thank you also to all of our family and friends who have prayed relentlessly that God's wisdom would guide our surgeon and his assistants--well done! Thank you to Deb, Vicky and Pastor Dave for praying with me both before and after surgery. Thanks, Mom and LeRoy, for treating Jynx as if she were your own while we were unable to care for her. If I have left out a single effort on my behalf, I apologize. I'd blame it on my brain tumor, but my kids inform me that I can't use that excuse anymore. Praise God! But thank you too! God bless you all for the ways you have blessed the Elders this month.

A super special thank you to Steve for writing the first post-op blog, even though he posted some pretty icky pictures (all with my permission, he wanted me to assure you, but I think this one, taken one week post-op, is better), and for being the first one with whom I share my great triumphs and whisper my deepest fears. Thank you for being trustworthy with all the shadowy parts of my life and for sticking around through the rough stuff, knowing right alongside me that the best is yet to come. I love you!

The Greatest Blog Entry Evah!

Howdy folks. Steve Elder here. I have the privilege of updating you on my bride's condition after having her brain tumor resected.

But before I continue, I should give my wife credit for teaching me something. I said to her today, "Babylove, why do the doctors say they had to 'resect' your tumor instead of just 'remove' it?"

She opened her saggy eyes and looked up at me from her hospital bed, morphine and vicodin oozing from every pore, and slowly formed her lips to say, "Well, disect means to take something apart and leave it apart; resect means to take something apart and put it back together."

And then I think I heard her murmur something about "idiot" and "let me sleep" or something like that.

Anyways, so I said, "Oh, that makes sense. What doesn't make sense is that you just had an electric saw cut your skull open yet you can still recite SAT definitions." Katie is remarkable.

Let me give you a little timeline of her remarkable day.

This is Katie just before being wheeled into the OR.

Only Katie could pull off looking this sexy in a shower cap.

Her surgery began about 8:00am and was over about 9:15am. I know this because when I emerged from the waiting room bathroom family and friends told me that I had just missed the surgeon explain how the surgery went.

Dangit! Yes, that's what I said ... or something kinda like that. I couldn't believe that for one of THE most anticipated moments of my LIFE I was in the bathroom. I wondered if I was on candid camera or trapped in a Seinfeld episode.

Luckily the surgeon came out to the waiting room moments later and forced everyone to stop laughing and pointing at me.

He told me he biopsied her tumor in the OR and it was benign. It was a meningioma (benign) just like he thought. He said she'd be in recovery for about 2 more hours and that I could see her when they moved her to her hospital room. He said she wouldn't need to spend any time in intensive care and that she might be able to go home in 2 days.

I felt like crying.

This whole experience, coupled with her bacterial meningitis ordeal a few weeks ago, had my emotions percolating and they almost bubbled over when I heard this GREAT news.

When I was finally able to see her she looked like this. The time was now about 1:15PM and I hadn't seen her since 7:30AM. When I walked into her room she opened her eyes and groggily said, "Heeyyy, what a nice surprise to wake up to you."

I know what you're thinking... she obviously was still heavily medicated. True, but what she said will forever be etched in my memory as one of my most favoritest moments.

As she faded in and out of sleep, her only complaint was the extreme pain she felt in the right side of her face where they sliced through her chewing muscle when they cut open her scalp. I've got to find out what that muscle is called because I feel silly calling it her chewing muscle.

Her nurse gave her morphine for the pain but it didn't do squat. Then the nurse gave her vicodin and that seemed to help.
She had these crazy things on both her legs called Alternating Leg Pressure thingys. They keep the blood circulating and help prevent blood clots. They're like blood pressure arm bands but for the legs. My first thought when I saw them was, "No wonder Katie insisted on getting a pedicure before her surgery... she knew I'd be publishing photos of her feet."

I left her that night to go home to the kids. When I opened the garage door for a split second I thought I was in Costco. There were so many food items stacked around the garage from the wonderful, loving, caring, generous people we work with at Rowland High School. I stood there for a minute and looked at all the time and energy that went into buying us this food. And I also made a mental note of who had not given us anything. They might be sorry, nay, verily verily, they shall be sorry.

When I left work early today, er, I mean when I left work on time just like I always do and have done for the last 17 years, I drove to see Katie and this is what she looked like.

When I walked into her room she looked up at me with blood-shot eyes and said, "Daaaang Elder, this medicinral... medricinal, this medicinal mari-ju-wana is the SHIZZAZ!"

I said, "Stop hogging it all ya greedy woman and give me a hit, I've had a hard day too." It was only then that I realized she was pulling my leg. What she was actually doing was exercising her lungs. She has to suck air from this tube 10 times every hour. I forget why. But I know it's important that she suck and not blow.

A little later in the day she looked like this. Could she be any more adorable in her pink Yankees hat? I think not.

I know she looks a little stoned, but seriously, she wasn't really smoking anything in the previous picture. I think this look she's got going on here can be best described as "Ring the nurse for more vicamordinphine."

Katie has a hate-love relationship with vicodin. It relives her pain but makes her sick to her stomach. She spent the night after her surgery throwing up. All night. Until 5 in the morning.

She said to me, "Have you ever tried to vomit with a 3-inch hole in your skull and a zillion staples in your scalp? It hurts!"

She says she feels crunchiness in her head. It must be from the staples rubbing against her scalp.

I've never felt more helpless and powerless in my life than during the last few months. I would give anything, ANYTHING, to stop Katie's suffering.

Besides being in pain, Katie has to be woken up every hour because she had surgery on her brain. Each hour she's given a test, a test for her 12 cranial nerves. Did you know you have 12 cranial nerves? I mean, I knew this, but did you?

She has to touch her nose and then touch the nurse's finger, she has to follow with her eyes the nurse's fingers, she has to push her feet against the nurse's hands, etc...

It kinda looks like she's being pulled over for a DUI. I mean, not that I know what that looks like. I'm just imagining.

Today her kids came to visit her. Zack and Lizzy. I know this boosted her spirits because she's so in love with her kids. And they're good kids too. They are my step-kids and I only beat them when they truly deserve it. But I beat them out of love.

Katie is such a good mom. I only hope my own 2 children are as close to me and as open with me as Katie's kids are with her.

After Zack and Lizzy left, Katie's surgeon paid her a visit. He removed her doo-rag and this is what it looked like.

I couldn't believe how little hair was shaved off. This surgeon, Dr. Behnam Badie, is a super genius if you ask me.

Katie did a lot of research online and she met a lot of brain tumor patients in chat rooms who had doctors who were unsympathetic to cosmetic worries such as hair loss.

Besides being ultra-skilled at his craft, Katie's doctor is one of the most caring, empathetic doctors we've ever known.

Katie's pain is supposed to subside in another day or two. If she can eat and walk, and not feel too much pain, and not feel nauseous she gets to come home on Thursday.

I can't wait!

Let me flashback to the day of her surgery.

I was in the waiting room when I was visited by Gail, a neighbor of mine when I lived in Pasadena before Katie and I were married. Gail works at City of Hope and helped us get our first appointment to the hospital.

It was sooooo comforting knowing a friend of ours worked at COH. When I was introducing Gail to Katie's mom Gail said, "Katie lights up a room when she walks in it."

Then she looked at me and said, "I know she lights up Steve."

Oh man, those percolating emotions pounced on me for some reason and I had to fight hard not to burst into tears. My lip started quivering and my eyes started getting misty.

I guess Gail's right because Katie does light up me.

But it's even more than that.

Katie IS me. I mean, I wouldn't be who I am today without Katie.

She taught me who I am and how to be who I am.

When Katie and I met we discovered that we are each others anam cara. Anam cara means soul friend. Someone who always accepts you as you truly are, holding you in beauty and light.

Katie often says the two of us were scooped up, molded and formed out of the same handful of dirt. That we're connected. Soul friends. Anam caras.

I think she's right because she always views the worst parts of me as if they were beauty and light. And I'm the farthest thing from that.

But not to Katie, my soul friend.

I need my anam cara to come home.

Because she truly is beauty and light to me.

And I love her so much with my whole heart.