Numbers Game

Years ago Jeff, Mark and I were hunting ducks on a small lake. The morning was beautiful and we had our usual minimalist decoy setup. We have enough decoys to darken the whole body of water but rarely go to that extreme. We weren't getting much shooting because all the ducks that came on the lake went to a brother waterfowler, who had all the decoys in the known world, out in front of him. He got a lot of shooting and after a while he came over and invited us to sit with him because he knew he we weren't getting any ducks to look at our spread. "After all" he said "it's a numbers game."

Yesterday Karen and I spent time trying to get to the root of the tension between us. Karen said she felt 'apart' from me the past two weeks. She's right; I have had a lot on my mind. The nagging butt pain certainly focused my mind on other things. Plus I have been thinking about what I need to know about ostomies, and what has to be done around the house while I feel good, and, and, ... The list could be very long and my mind was full.

Karen felt lost because I was directing my attention to things instead of time and all she wants, all she needs, is time together. Especially now, when we are in a kind of honeymoon till the surgery. "Do you think I am coming back here if you die? I want time together, with you."

Whoa. Guilty as charged. I have been too focused on the wrong things. But, the elephant in the room, the thing we have both avoided even though it is filling up our minds, is the D word. What if I die? What if the treatment isn't working, or the cancer has moved and grown, or what if this terrible disease takes my life? What then?

You can't not think of dying when you have cancer. The thought will come into your head and what you choose to do with the thought makes a difference. We talked and cried, we shared our fears. We got naked and cried more and got through it; this time. The literature you receive as a cancer patient is full of numbers and statistics citing the numbers of new cases every year while pointing out the relatively low numbers of deaths from cancer. The whole thing is supposed to make you feel hopeful.

Karen and I both know these things: This is my second cancer. My family has a lot of cancer. Bums make a point of walking across a busy street to ask me for money. And someone has to die from cancer. Everyone who reads the literature wants to be the one who survives. No one wants to take one for the team. "Fuck the team! I want to live!" The nurses and doctors all paint hopeful pictures and hope is good. Hope is necessary. Hope is what we are clinging to while we are busy trying to shove the elephant back out the door. Hope is not a numbers game.

Peace,
Mike

Fun at the Forbes House

Mike canning peaches. We did 21 quarts on Tuesday evening.

The girls at play.
Anna (shepherd) & SaDee (spaniel)

Peace,
Karen

Trepidation

Karen and I have been working today the day for a long time and now that I actually have a date set aside for surgery I admit to some trepidation, some apphrehesion, some fear.

Side effects from radiation and chemo still linger and will for some time, but still, life without the leash is wonderful. Every day is another reality check. Another chore raises its' head, another issue to explore; seems like there will never be an end to what has to be done. So, we just plug along, one day, one breath at a time. How else to deal with life? I don't know...

In this brief period of suspended animation we are trying to find our old lives, our former selves, trying to reconnect without acknowledging the hidden air of desparation that wafts through our consciousness. Sometimes it is so hard to be completely hopeful; so difficult to believe in a good outcome. We weathered this first part pretty well and yet, at times, I just want to quit, want to avoid the pain and discomfort that will follow. Easier by far, to contemplate Karen and I in Woodland Caribou, living out the last of our days, alone and yet more together than most people will ever be. Pipe dreams offer small solace.

On September 29th I have another MRI, followed by a visit with Dr. Madoff on the 30th. Surgery is tenatively scheduled for October 2oth. How many days to get ready? Not enough and too many. Really, it doesn't matter. The choice does not exist. This is just another thing we have to do, together. For us there is no other way. But still, late at night when the neighborhood dogs are silent, fear and hope and dreams compete for attention. Time slows and the nights become too long and dawn is one more thing that seems so very far away.

Peace and prayers,
Mike

Walk before we run

Seems not all dogs run when unleashed. Some just walk.

We spent a lovely evening at our favorite restaurant on Friday night complete with drinks. It was fun to watch Mike take in the delicious taste of wine and for the first time in 5 1/2 weeks he had some brandy in his coffee. He took a sip, closed his eyes, tilted his head back and held the warm liquid in his mouth and smiled. Delicious

Saturday was rather lazy. Mike was tired and sore. We ate breakfast - left over prime rib scrambled into farm eggs with basil and asiago cheese. Mike read a while then took a long nap. I went to the garage, put away some gardening stuff and cleaned. When Mike got up we had a snack before heading to the woods with pails. We drove out to our sugar bush and wandered one of the walking trails. I had noticed a large raspberry patch out there last fall and had hopes of finding ripe berries, no such luck. Still, the walk is what we both needed and it was good to be back out in the woods even with all the deer flies and mosquitoes. Thank goodness for bug shirts and head nets.

On the way home we stopped and Mike pulled four long poles from a loggers cutting. He trimmed the branches and we strapped them to the top of the van before heading home. Back in March I had purchased some Tibetan prayer flags for him on my trip to Sedona. The plan was to erect the poles in the same manner as we did our tipi and string the prayer flags to them. We drove to town to pick up a few groceries looking like the bush hippies we once were. I guess it's still in us and hopefully always will be.

At home we cooked and ate dinner, showered and fell into bed exhausted. Mike said he hadn't felt this tired since our 10 portage day on last Canadian canoe trip. I had to agree. It seems we have gotten soft in the past weeks. We were in bed by 9 and slept until 9 yesterday. I think a lot of this was what Mike called "Jet Lag" or rather we were experiencing letdown from the stress of the past weeks. I guess we have to walk before we run.

On Sunday morning we had coffee in bed then made apple cinnamon pecan pancakes for breakfast. We erected our prayer tipi and had a ceremony at it. We will use this space to meditate and offer prayers and welcome anyone who wishes to do the same. It is our own sacred place which sits right outside our main living space as a reminder to be thankful. After the tipi was erected we picked beans and then headed to Lake Bemidji State Park for a walk.

The park was pretty quiet. Not a lot of people. We met a few bikes and a couple of runners on the paved portion of the trail. Our pace was leisurely. Mike picked raspberries along the way and shared them with me. On the dirt trail we took I found one blueberry hanging from it's bush, picked it, and gave it to Mike.

The State Park does not sit that far from town and is flanked by roads. Still, on the dirt paths it is quiet and solitary. We walked among the big pines and tall aspens who would occasionally throw a yellowing leaf down in front of us; an announcement of falls impending arrival. The woods carried an interesting mix of green and brown smells - a competition of summer vs fall. A small flock of birds fed in the pines over head. We stopped to "pish" for them, trying to bring them in closer for ID. I tipped my head back and set to my pishing and before long had a half dozen chickadees staring down at us. Seems the pish is irresistible to them. The birds we had wanted to see remained at the top of the canopy; more interested in feeding than pishing.

We drove the campground on the way out. There were several mini-campers in the park which we both found of great interest. There was talk of having a tiny rolling home and we dreamt out loud about all the places we would go with it. I caught the camping bug and I am sure Mike did too though we didn't talk about it.

We made dinner together, cleaned up the kitchen and headed to bed early, again. So, you see, the mind is willing, the bodies, not so much. We are goning to work on this though. Mike needs to be in good physical health going into his surgery and me? well...I've become a fatty in these past weeks what with stress eating and a new found love of sedentary lifestyle. So, it's slow, but steady, progress back into our usual activities. I'm thankful that the pump is gone and the radiation is done and that we have this time to play, even if it is on a toned down level. It's good to feel like us again. Really good.

Peace,
Karen

Mike Forbes - live and unplugged

How bout a happy little postie today? Ok then, here we go.

After some clinical snaf-a-roonie Mike got the ole green light and after his 4 pm butt burning he gets unplugged from the port-a-chemo and is a free man!

What are we gonna do now that he's off leash? Well what any smart dogs would do, run!

Catch us if you can.

Peace
Karen

This is your life

"This is your life." That's what Kimberly the Radiation Oncology nurse said yesterday when I was trying to explain my frustration with 3 extra days of chemo pump. She said, "It's only three more days in the grand scheme of things."

Ok, fair enough. Now, trade places with Mike and I. We have 8 weeks before surgery. In 8 weeks we enter the great unknown. Mike goes to sleep and doesn't know what he will wake up to and I sit in a room waiting on a Dr to tell me what the rest of OUR lives will look like. We don't know going in if Mike will have a temporary or permanent ostomy. We don't know if the cancer is gone or spread. The only thing we do know is that for the next 8 weeks he will have nothing hanging from his body and our lives will be pretty normal, just like yours.

"Lot's of people have ostomys and live normal lives." We hear that too. Mostly from people who know people with ostomys. It's pretty easy to say how it's gonna be when it's not really you. But let's think about this - look down at your abdomen and think about pooping out a hole into a bag. Think about what that hole looks like. Think about trying to make love to your wife with your poo hole and bag. Think about being the wife and watching your beloved struggling to cope and then you yourself struggling with trying to cope and trying to be brave and trying to convince yourself that this is ok and you can live with this because this is your life. Think about yourself making love with more stuff in the way. Really, think about it.

Now when you think about all of this approaching, when you think about 8 weeks before you are turned upside down and emptied out again, do those three extra days without a pump seem important?

Yeah, this is our life. This is our life and we get that but thanks Kimberly for reminding us. I guess we weren't thinking straight.

Keepin' the Peace,
Karen

Soooo....ummm

First I need to say sorry to my sister-in-law Judy who is a licensed clown (for real, I've seen the card and she has a red nose on the front of her van): I don't hate her. My friend Elaine just thinks I had a traumatic childhood experience.

Second...Dr B is trying to work things out. He can do two radiation treatments on Friday and is gonna strong arm Dr Shahidi into taking the pump off on Friday. There is like a 99% chance this will happen. Dr B said he'd lean on Shahidi for the last 1% if he needs to.

Turns out crying in the Drs office has some kind of ju-ju...or it might be that guys don't like when girls cry. Anyhow...stay posted.

I'm better now. Nothing got broken and no one got hurt. I'm over it. So, it's safe to come out again. Sorry.

Oh, and I didn't cancel dinner plans...thank goodness!

Peace,
Karen

Have I told you lately....

how figgin' much I hate cancer and all it's trappings. Right now I want to kick the crap out of something! Anything!

Mike was supposed to be done with chemo/radiation on Friday but because the stupid radiation machine was broken one day a few weeks ago he has to go until MONDAY! Do you think someone could have figured this out before today and told us? We had plans! Real plans without tubing and hosing plans! Things we could have done without being on a leash! We had dinner plans to celebrate...will be canceling those now thank you very much.

I am so mad and so sick of this fucking intrusion in out lives. It just never ends. OH did I tell you I have pink eye? So, there was no "five minutes of my spot today" either. I hate that!

I hate the cancer. I hate the doctor that found it. I hate the nurses and the clinic. I hate the pump. I hate the port. I hate 5fu. I hate being tethered to Bemidji - in fact I think I hate Bemidji today and I hate midgets, clowns and puppets and I'd like to punch a smiley face right now. I hate that my dishwasher is broke. I hate peppers. I hate my neighbors dog who barks and whines. I hate that my hummingbirds can't all get along. I hate the color pink. I hate Brett Farve and the MN Vikings...I hate a lot of things right now and it feels nice.

I hate that I don't yet know who the dumb-ass incomp was who didn't tell us this awesomely great news because I'd like to kick that persons ass, TWICE.

I'm way mad and I want to be that way for a while...I just wanna be mad for a while.

And there is my Buddhist thought for the day.
Peace and Whatever
Karen the pissed

Slow

It's a million hot. No exaggeration...a million...I just checked. But I tell myself, at least it's not a million and we are living in the tipi.

On Sunday the dishwasher broke. No, not Mike, he can still wash dishes, but the automatic dishwasher. Bellied-up right in he middle of canning peaches. So, we are back to doing dishes by hand and you know what? I kinda like it.

Mike is in the air-conditioned bedroom sleeping. Dinner is ready for when he gets up and I decided to do the dishes. I poured a glass of wine, set it on the window sill and mindlessly looked out the window and did the dishes. It was kinda nice. I mean, I had warm running water and all. In the tipi I had to haul water, heat water and do dishes in dishpans. At the second tipi (for those of you who don't know we did 22 months in two different tipis) I had sinks which drained into a five gallon bucket which needed to be hauled out every day. So, the sink and running water toady was a kick. Plus, there was wine and a window!

It's funny how having something broke can slow you down and focus you on small joys. Now I'm not saying I found a ton of joy in doing the dishes but it did slow me down and I got to be mindless for a little bit and I enjoyed that. Mike's kinda broke right now and that slows us down too. We aren't out tearing up the lakes in the canoe, whipping streams to a froth with fly rods or camping ourselves into the ground but we are spending a great deal of time just being with each other and talking and I do find a ton of joy in that.

So, he's up now. I'll put dinner on the table: country style ribs, fresh beans, carrots and 'tatoes from our garden. Picking them and providing for us is very satisfying and brings me as much joy as watching him eat what we've grown. It's been a slow year for the garden but it is providing, I guess it's true that good things are worth waiting for. So, I raise my glass and toast to simple pleasures and slowness. Cheers.

Peace and slow down.
Karen

Serious Business- The First Rant

(Journal entry- Thursday, August 13th, 6 pm. WJF)

Raised the shades and opened windows
shut against the heat
let the breeze blow through-cooling
the end of the day.
Yard brittle grassed and brown
dry hard hot.

Nap on the couch
no boots no socks no pants
the breeze cool-rattling the beaded fringe
on the window quilts sudden warmth
while the air stops to take a breath.

Hummers come from somewhere
when shade finds the feeder they do too.
I cannot imagine the sugar water is good
I imagine sugar water soured by the sun
but maybe last nights' moonlight
preserved the juice
made moonshine
blessed by Perseid's dust falling smoky
glittering fireworks from space.
Nevermind
survival is a serious business
one hummer guards against all others
survival is a serious business.

We eat together
me sipping ice chilled sun tea a week old
eating creamed peas on new potatoes
from our garden
venison burger
organic, free range till
I invited them home last November
and they followed behind us
up and down the snowy trail through
a mile of moonlight
and here we all are and
isn't this nice?

Survival is a serious business
ask my aching anus
I pass palettes of pain in shades
of red and brown
wondering if discarded cancer cells
not wanted by me or anyone
in their right mind
wander my septic tank lonely
or maybe mix
with a million gallons of sewage
in the big brown basins at work
like the sewer monster guy from that
episode of the X files
you know the one.

The grimace passes too
and the fire without flame or heat
burns slow and deep
twitching memories never let go
never relax.

Together we wait
the hummer and I
for the solace of shade
giving us a promise of life again.
Survival is a serious business.

Now the rant:

Can anything flaunt the serious reality of real survival more than so-called survivor programs on TV? People thrown together on an island to play at surviving for fat cushioned TV spectators. the coliseum in HD for the amusement of the masses; for the distraction of the masses from the absolute reality of their lives.

Karen says: You want to see survivors? Put them in the big bog north of Washkish, in the summer, naked, and let them walk out to a road.

I say:
You know what I'd say. Survive something that will kill you deader than hell before you claim to be a survivor. Find the amusement in outliving cancer or war or famine or yourself. Then vote all the other wannabees the hell off your island. Survival is a serious business.

Peace, and love,
Mike

Hon, does this pad make my butt look big?

Sisters Unite!

Yup, uh huh. I got to buy pads for myself today. Not by myself. For myself; for me and that stinkin' treacherous, leaky swine bastard of a sphincter. Seems there is no way for me to check the flow, albeit a small flow, of what is sometimes a bit bloody and sometimes a bit smelly. I am tired of wondering what spoor I leave behind when I sit down, never mind the need to carry clean 'wears around in my green bag full of butt stuff. (I just gotta ask: Are the guys rolling their eyes while the women are saying "Yes, yes"?)

I remember hearing old guys talking about 'so and so' needing a new pucker string. Maybe that's what I need, too. My whole bottom 'end feels as though I just went a round with Dr. Mallgren's Love Rocket of Doom. Plus my stupid 'rrhoid is hanging out back there making raspberry noises and saying things like "Nah, nah, nah, nah. You can't get me!" Now I'm starting to think I actually had two of the evildoers back there and only one has bled to death so far.

I have this almost constant activity down there; pressure like I should poop and always at an inconvenient time and place, or pass gas or the burning itching, painful tickling. This builds to a crescendo leaving me feeling like one of the soggy bottom boyz. And by golly, when I get time to look at what's been going on down there, I am soggy.

So, armed with ultra-thin overnight pads and a refill on unscented baby wipes, I feel like I can relax for a little while. This ain't adult Depends, by a longshot and I am thankful for that. Like Karen, and Jeanelle, the radiation tech said, maybe I am just excreting the tumor. That sounds hopeful and I'll go with that for the present moment. If pooping Drano is the price I have to pay to be cancer free, then sign me up. Just send more pads, please.

Peace and love to you all,
Mike
Honorary Sister in the LLF/LLA

Lessons from Bees

The bumble bees
know where their home is.
They have memorized
every stalk and leaf of the field.
They fall from the air
at exactly the right place,
they crawl under the soft grasses,
they enter the darkness humming.

~Mary Oliver

On the day Mike and I married I read this poem and gave Mike a small rhinestone bee pin that had been mine since I was very young. I vowed to use bees as our life's example and to learn lessons from them. I told Mike I would always know where my home was as long as I knew where he was. I vowed to work hard at making a home for us. I vowed to be fiercely protective of that home and I asked the same same of him because with that hard work would come sweetness.

Yesterday I was in the garden with my morning coffee - the huge, glowing, yellow-orange blossoms of the pumpkins had called me outside. Bees were busy humming between flowers; singing with their wings as they gathered nectar to carry home. Each bee had a different sound which changed pitch from flower to flower as more pollen began to cling to legs and thorax. The more load the deeper the hum. Each bee also carried varying amounts of pollen between flowers. One bee, except for his mahogany colored wings was completely covered in yellow. He glowed in the morning light as he flew away, particles of pollen trailing him like fairy dust.

But bees aren't fairies, ask my daughter-in-law Mandy. She was pulling weeds beneath the squash blossoms in the afternoon and got stung. It happens with bees. A misunderstanding of sorts. Each of us doing our job and focused on our own task. An unintentional disregard of the other occurs, we get in each others way, become a bit bothersome and the next thing you know someone gets stung. That's how it's been here at the Flats for the past few days. Mike has been focused on his discomfort and has become withdrawn. I've been a little hovery trying to help, getting too much in his space, taking things a little too personally. I'm just trying to work here, trying to keep my home together but sometimes it feels like there is a bear lumbering a 100 yards off in the field and closing in to rip our hive to shreds.

That's what this cancer feels like some days and yesterday was one of them. I'm just trying to protect what we have. Pieces of hive are falling off. Little things have been getting lost to this cancer bear. First there was my spot to the port. The pump and tubing are still in the way; it's whirring a constant reminder of the bear in the field. Mike's mouth and lips are becoming dry from chemo so kissing is going by the wayside, well, the big long sweet kisses anyhow, there are still these little pecking kisses which aren't nearly as satisfying. Then there's the roid thing which causes Mike pain and with the pain the withdrawl. Along with the roid there is underwear to bed and reduced intimacy. We won't talk about white bread. He's developing a few GI issues now too and he's been tired this weekend - pain will do that to you.

I don't blame Mike for these things. I blame the cancer. But because the cancer is part of Mike I think it's hard for him not to blame himself. It's pretty frustrating for both of us. Neither one of us can do a damned thing about it and finding patience is sometimes pretty hard. Pollen builds up. It's hard to fly under the extra weight. The nectar seems heavy and we both want to unload. Stingers stand ready and sometimes someone gets stung.

Yesterday while I watched bees in the garden one flew up, landed in my hair and shook himself off before flying away with his honey, humming. And there was my lesson delivered by a bee: Work hard, shake off what you don't need and sing on the way home. Nice.

Peace
and
Don't worry
Bee happy
Don't worry
Bee happy now!

Karen

Nine women, nine quilt shops and a limo...

Crazy huh? Turns out crazy is just what I needed.

For several days prior to the Shop Hop (that's what they call these types of outings) I was looking for an out. I was a little anxious about being away from Mike for a day - never mind I spend entire work days away from him and I'm ok - but on Friday I sucked it up, got in Ruby (our van in case you forgot) and met Catherine and a few other members of the Headwaters Quilt Guild for our big adventure.

Catherine had turned some mature agewhere upon your husband buys you a limo for the day hands you a credit card and says "See YA!" So, there we were: Catherine, Margaret, Shirley, Mindy, Joan and me on our way to 13 shops in a day. We picked up Mary in Park Rapids and caught up with Kathy and her friend Sherry in Detroit Lakes at our first shop.

I, apparently, have been living under a rock or maybe it was in the tipi, I don't know, but I was completely clueless as to what we were doing. At the first shop Mindy took me by the hand and helped me get my "passport" and free quilt block package. "Get your passport stamped at each shop and don't forget to get your block." she schooled me. Turns out this thing we were doing is part of something called the Minnesota Shop Hop. (shrugs). There are thirteen shops in our section of the state and if you get stamped at all thirteen you get thirteen yards of fabric. Plus, they give you a pattern and fabric from some Minnesota fabric at each shop. Hmmmmm....cool.

So, there I was, all Mimosa'd up and shopping with the pros! Did I mention we had food and drink in the limo? Mindy brought fresh carmel rolls and mimosa mix. Margaret had cinnamon tortilla chips and fruit dip. There were also Twizzlers, chips, cookies and chocolate; a rolling snack feast is what it was.

We rolled about 400 miles on Friday. We went to Detroit Lakes, Moorhead, Fergus Falls, Pelican Rapids, Perham, Park Rapids, Walker, Hackensack and Pine River. We arrived back in Bemidji around 8:30 that evening all shopped out. Did I buy fabric? YES...Did I have fun? YES...would I do it again...YES. I enjoyed my time with some of the quilters I only get to see on second Tuesdays from 6:30 - 8:30. It was nice to get to know them a bit better and share a lot of laughter.

Did I survive being away from Mike....YES...but you all knew that. There were times I wasn't even worried about him and I needed that more than I knew. So, I'm thinking that maybe Catherine, when she invited me, knew this too, at least that's what I'm going to think.

It wasn't until our second to last stop that Joan and I admitted to each other how hard it had been to get ourselves to go on this trip. Joan is in the same boat with a husband who is newly battling cancer (Margaret's husband is too but I think they've been at it longer and might be better at it than Joan and I...I aspire to being better at it someday). Still, Joan and I were glad we gone along.

Now here is where I'm supposed to have some sort of revelation or sage words but really all this was...was another lesson in keeping my feet moving and letting others help me along a pretty long tough portage. So, for those of my quilting sisters who are reading this I say THANK you for your healing! I'm a lucky girl!

Piece,
Karen

Where do I begin?

Trish and Jon left a few minutes ago. Jon had been exposed to someone who had whooping cough so we visited across the distance of their pickup bed. Visiting across a pickup bed is probably considered close in some circles, but Jon and Trish are more than friends so the hugs we didn't share with each other will come later.

I was expecting them, so when their phone call woke me from a nap, I wasn't caught off guard. What did surprise me after I hung up, was the gurgling rumble from deep in my bowels, a sound like the ominous growl of the Balrog approaching Frodo, et. al, deep in the mines of Moria. And to carry the metaphor a bit farther, as soon as Jon and Trish were across the bridge, the Balrog attacked. The battle is still joined at this point but going in slo-mo unless I have to scramble up to the bathroom. The special effects are still colorful in slo-mo but with time to see what is really happening the overall impression is not very interesting.

Some of you may have read about the citzens of Roidsburg, in a comment on the previous post. For those of you following their efforts to establish a political entity I am happy to tell you the heat of their movement has begun to fade. The inevitable reminders of their presence remains. The cleanup is proceeding slowly; the sanguine stain they left upon that which they hoped to claim, lingers. I just hope the cleanup efforts do not tax my energy too much.

Today is gray. The sky is almost bright with a textureless blanket of cloud. The air is humid from last night's rain and the lack of real heat is welcome. The garden is waiting as fast as it can for sunlight and heat. The squash blossoms glow like bright yellow tissue paper flowers waiting for the party to begin. The beans and cucumbers stretch their imagination into nascent bean and pickles. The beets tops are busy recovering from having their tops trimmed by deer a few weeks ago. Chances are good that this year we will have produce to harvest from our garden. And this year, we'll be here to take advantage of the opportunity.

This week we anticipate getting a tentative date for surgery. I talked to Maddog's nurse, Katie, and she said they would look for an opening somewhere between the sixth and eighth week after the end of my current radiation/chemo regime. My intellect wrestles with the concept of time, sometimes thinking that surgery is just around the corner and othertimes, thinking surgery is far away in a reality that belongs to someone else. Maybe this is just due to the state I am in this afternoon, a kind of shuffling old man existing in an interminably long gray day, lacking energy and ambition, tethered reluctantly by biological necessity to bed and bathroom.

Pretty soon Karen will be home. This afternoon the LLF of the LLA will be celebrating the 50th birthday of the General Secretary of Personal Improvement and Karen went in to help the Generalissima with the decorating. I am not sure I will attend. I know the gala will be fun. I am just not sure how much fun I can stand, (or sit for). But, maybe with enough coffee first and skipping to desert right away, I can go for a little while.

So, where do I begin? Right now there is no beginning, yet we are locked in the middle of something. How we got here is memory and where we are going remains to be seen. Enjoy your weekend, spend time together in peace and loving kindness. My best to you all.
Peace,
Mike

Plain White Paper Bags

My 6'3" dad drove a VW Beetle back and forth to his job in the city of Chicago. On the weeks he'd work day shift I'd wait for him to come home and race across the backyards to meet him on the road. When I was little enough he'd open the door and I'd crawl onto his lap. He'd put his big hands next to mine on the wheel and I'd get to drive home. When I got bigger I'd stand on the running board with his big arm around my waist and ride, fireman style, on the side of the car. A pretty big treat! Not as big, however, as looking over at the passenger seat and seeing a "plain white bag" sitting there!

The white bag always contained something wonderful: confections from the Fannie May Candy Company, cookies from a Chicago bakery, bagels or rye bread from a Jewish bread store. I learned early on that good things came in white bags. On my dad's Saturday off we'd go to the bakery in Antioch and get pastries; bismarks, struesel coffee cake and long johns for coffee break they came in a white bag. We'd drive up to the corner of #89 and Grass Lake Road on Friday nights to the hot dog stand and order REAL Chicago style hot dogs and fries for dinner. We'd wait while the guy would create our meal, wrap it in white paper and place it in a white paper bag. At Antioch Pizza, where you can still get a damned good Italian Beef Sandwich, wet please, they still serve it to you in a white paper bag.

Here in Bemidji you can still get a few things in white paper bags: sweet rolls at Raphaels, sandwiches at Beyond Juice, sometimes candy at Chocolates Plus and today ...well, today I noticed that Erin brought all the stuff to change out Mike's chemo tubing in a plain white bag. I'd noticed this on our last trip to chemo but was too busy visiting to pay close attention to the contents. Today, while we waited for the pump, I took a peek inside: tubing, needles, syringes, gloves. No candy or cookies.

I thought, hmmm...nothing wonderful. Just this chemo stuff to go with the cancer stuff to go with this invasion in our lives stuff. Yuck. I turned my back on it. There in the chair sat Mike looking, well, good and by good I mean healthy. Erin had just moments before said to Mike that he didn't look like he was taking chemo. His labs were all good and in fact were better than the week before. On paper you would never know he was getting chemo. His energy is better. His appetite is good. Other than the 'roid he wants to get a zip code and stimulus money for he isn't in any pain. There's no hair loss, no radiation burn and no mouth sores.

Erin came in and pulled his needle and tubing and gave us some time to be alone without the tubing and pump before she dumped the contents of the white bag out and began prepping Mike for reinsertion. While it's true there were no treats in the bag it's contents are helping to heal Mike. We are hugely thankful that he is tolerating this so well thus far. We were told as the tumor shrinks he would actually start to feel better so...he's feeling better. And that white bag means we are going to get that precious few moments alone without the "porta-chemo" and I guess that's the big treat in the "plain white bag." Thanks Erin!

Peace and treats all around,
Karen

Up Ahead, somewhere...

At some point on a portage you are all alone, balancing the weight of your canoe and maybe a heavy pack on your back as well, as you place one wet foot in front of the other, over and over again.

You've already been out several days and the packs lost their pristine guidebook quality after the first day. Now they are lumpy and out of shape. They don't carry comfortably and your shoulders and neck are sore from sunburn and the strain of unaccustomed work.

This portage started out fairly flat and smooth but now you stumble in and out of small mud holes and balance gingerly across the half rotten logs spanning the larger holes, hoping your feet don't slip, sending you to crash beneath the weight of your burdens.

The flies have found you and you switch hands constantly to swat at them and wipe the sweat from your eyes. By hunching your shoulders you can shift the weight of the canoe from one shoulder to the other and while you are busy doing all this, the bow of your lovely craft bonks into a tree, sending you careening and swearing into the underbrush beside the trail.

This is the way these things go. Add a couple of ridges to climb up and down, hoping, always hoping that the last ridge will be, the last ridge and that soon you will see blue water shimmering through the canopy of trees ahead.

So much of the business of portaging is mental. Yes, they can be physically challenging because of the bugs, the heat, the sharp profusely intense ache in the muscles sloping down from your neck to your shoulders. Yes, portages can be difficult but how you deal with the difficulty is all mental.

A canoe trip though, is a voluntary thing; an activity undertaken for fun; for the experience of life in the wilderness, days on the water and nights under the stars. And knowing this you also know the portage is just one of the lesser joys that is part of the experience. Truth is, not all portages are evil and if we are talking about the real thing, I have gotten better at keeping my mental head 'up', even on really nasty portages.

Today is a different story. Today I am plagued by a gnawing, burning pain in a place that has no teeth and never sees the sun. I know I am in the middle of this portage: sometimes this portion is the longest part of the journey. You can't return to the beginning and the end is too distant. Don't count the steps, or the days or weeks, at least not yet. I learned long ago not to look for the end too soon or the whole portage just gets longer. And do not forget that in the fall there will be another portage and after that, one more and we should be home, free.

Free is the key word- free is the goal no matter how many steps we have to take to get there.

Free is that place on the map you marked with a large X. That is our destination but the X is not on the map we are using today. The map with the X lies buried deep in the pack on your back. It will be days before we can pull that map out and smooth the wrinkles away and we can't begin counting days, not yet.

After awhile a nameless tune comes into your head and you begin to hum as you step along, carrying your destination on your back. The water is up ahead, somewhere.