I found a very weak, very finicky signal! 
I'll just post a few photos of where we are before it's gone again:
Tom is still in quite a bit of pain and is finding that he can't do much other than sleep. I worry about him becoming depressed. I worry that he'll need surgery (you can see that his shoulder bone has "popped up"). And I worry that we'll have to cancel our trip to Germany if he does.
I haven't explored this site extensively yet, but if the tour is accurate, I'll definitely be sucked in!
Actually, perhaps I should resist, since the kids definitely expect REAL scrapbooks. Orrrrrrr... I can use it as a test-ground, playing with potential lay-outs before creating them in "for real"! In any case, it looks like fun.
And -- we're heading to a tiny little cabin on the shores of Bottle Bay, on giant Lake Pend Oreille in northern Idaho. Tom insists he feels fine, so off we go!
I love this place (which belongs to my sister-in-law who lives nearby), especially sipping morning coffee on the sunny deck overlooking the lake. There's no phone, let alone Internet access there, but I promise to post photos -- taken with the new camera -- upon our return.
I'll start off by saying that everyone's fine. Some are in more pain than others. But for today, at least, everyone's fine.
I think I'll describe the day working backwards. Why? So I can begin with this picture.
(Actually, if I were to begin at the very end of the day, I'd start with my frenetic, just-before-closing trip to Sears to replace our washing machine that died a violent death, attempting to bring the house's electricity with it as it sputtered and gasped through its final cycle last night.)
So why is Tom smiling? Because he'd just been given a shot (demerol, toradol and fentanyl) in each butt-cheek by that pretty (and very kind) nurse, and that warm, initial oh-thank-you-thank-you-for-making-the-pain-go-away feeling was beginning to wash over him.
I'll bet you're wondering how Tom tore just about everything in his shoulder having anything to do with his AC (acromio-clavicular) joint and his calvicle, aren't you? You're probably thinking it had something to do with jumping out of an airplane, falling off a motorcycle, or racing a Ferrari, aren't you?
Well, you'd be wrong.
It did have to do with trying to get his 51-year-old body to play a rambunctious game of football with the 20-somethings at work -- and specifically something about diving for a ball "thrown short."
Which, he'd like you to know, he caught.
We're not sure what the healing process will entail, but apparently it is quite a process -- which might even include surgery. We'll know more once we see the orthopedic surgeon... which will be when we get back from Lake Pend Oreille in Idaho, where we'd planned to go tomorrow. And he is absolutely determined to still make it happen.
My longer-term concern is for our trip to Germany in three weeks. Will he be well enough to travel? Should we postpone? We hope not to postpone our trip, partly because we've really been looking forward to this, and partly because once I start working (and the hope is that I'll have breaking news in the near future), I won't be able to get away for three weeks like I can now. But we'll see.
So, moving backward through the day: I was on the cancer ward of Virginia Mason hospital in Seattle when I got Peter's call about Tom.
My dearest friend Kristin, who I have known and loved and admired since I was 12, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in October, 2004. As you might know, this is one of the deadliest forms of cancer, with an after diagnosis life-expectancy of around six months.
But this is Kristin we're talking about. Kristin defines "life-to-the-fullest"! And that's described Kristin all along, not just after her cancer diagnosis. She is light and love and laughter and everything that's perfect about life. And you know what? She's completely defied the odds! Almost four years after her diagnosis, after major ("Whipple") surgery at Johns Hopkins, after torturous chemo, and after surgery to remove parts of each lung, Kristin was at the hospital today for a routine CAT scan! (Kristin lives in the San Francisco Bay Area, but the clinical trial she's enrolled in -- and thus her cancer care -- is in Seattle, one of the best cities to be in if you have to have cancer.)
We are well aware that, in terms of statistics, Kristin is already on borrowed time, so our time together when she's in Seattle is precious and, in a way, tormenting. I can't imagine losing Kristin. I somehow came to accept Mom's cancer, maybe because she was in her 70's and it felt more random than unfair. But if cancer takes Kristin, who is still in her 50's, and who this world NEEDS, I'm just not sure I can accept that. I love her to pieces; she's the closest I'll ever come to having a sister.
But for today, at least, she feels good. And her CAT scan showed nothing alarming. I am so grateful! And hopeful.
Before heading to the hospital, I stopped by the organization from which I was laid off in April and asked if anyone wanted to head to Starbuck's for a latte. The administrative manager, the project director (who prompted my lay-off) and I spent about an hour together, during which time I learned that... how do I put this? I learned that he'll be involuntarily leaving the organization. I was definitely shocked. But what took me most by surprise was my emotional reaction. I felt no vindictiveness, no anger, no animosity, no spite toward him. I had no "serves you right" or "must be karma" feeling at all, only pity for the guy. I can't explain it, because I have every reason to gloat right now. But I just feel plain sorry for him and wish the best for him.
Sigh.
And before that (for the two of you who might still be reading), I had a meeting with the marketing director at the company with whom I'm interviewing for the Director of Product Development position AND for whom I'm doing a contract writing gig. Apparently my first draft (yes, the writer's block eventually passed) has been well-received. Now let's just hope my application for the job will be too! I know -- the whole situation is a bit bizarre, but I'm grateful for the work and for the opportunity to compete (and it sounds like it's a national competition) for the directorship.
And before that? I woke up, looked at the clock, and jumped out of bed with a breathless "OH MY GOD!" because I'd accidentally set my alarm for 6:55 PM instead of 6:55 AM.
As Aleks quipped sarcastically when he walked in the house this evening, saw Tom's condition and heard about the day, "Well I think we all learned a valuable lesson here, didn't we?"
I know I did.
Mom didn't talk much about her death, even when it was immanent.
I think she believed that she could will death away by ignoring its persistent nudging. On the last Monday of her life (I don't know why I remember it being Monday, but everything about that week defied normality), as she took to her bed for the last time, she asked my brother, "Is this dying?" To ask such a bold question after blatantly ignoring her physical decline for so long was completely uncharacteristic of Mom and it took Michael by surprise. He could only answer, "I don't know."
But we did know.
Within a day -- or perhaps within that moment -- Mom answered her own question. Yes, she was dying, and from that moment on she slipped further and further away from us, beckoned by something we can't understand, but which was obviously intoxicating for her as she attempted to straddle both worlds, coming back to us occasionally, perhaps out of a sense of obligation, but seeming to prefer "the light" -- or whatever it was that was calling her.
At one point, after almost a day of silence, Mom came back to us, struggling to describe where she was. "I'm floating!" she said, almost singing. And then she mentioned what sounded like the name of a "see" ("lake" in German). I could only imagine that she was floating in a lake near her childhood home in the Bavarian Alps. Shortly after that, Mom was hiking and bicycling, as evidenced both by her abbreviated mutterings and by her body movements. Obviously she was out of her cancer-ridden body at that moment and was athletic and strong, and back at home in Bavaria, even though she hadn't lived there for 50 years at that point.
The day after Mom's exhausting attempt to verbally share with us what she was experiencing, she slipped into a coma. Three days later, she slipped from this life. I can't help but believe that, in some way that we'll never understand, Mom was back at home, floating and hiking and bicycling in the Bavarian Alps as she had in her youth. And I can't but believe that she was happy.
Mom's death changed everything for me, from my beliefs about dying to the way I live my own life now. I now know what they mean by "going home." Or maybe I just chose to believe that Mom "went home" because it makes her death easier for me. Either way, in a very non-religious way, I do believe that dying took her to a "better place," even if it was only a temporary experience to see her through the process of dying.
Mom's ashes now rest in the dining room of the house my parents shared, in a beautiful piece of pottery which sits atop Mom's favorite piece of furniture, a massive armoire that she (ironically) called "the horse coffin." I'm not sure how Mom would feel about being there now, in a home that Dad has obviously re-made with Lou. Mom and Lou were friends, so I will choose to believe that she'd approve of Dad's new direction. But still, I wonder if she'd rather be back home in Bavaria, among the lakes, mountains and meadows where she swam and hiked and played.
I gently brought this up with Dad last week, not wanting to challenge his obvious jurisdiction in deciding Mom's final resting place, but also wanting to plant the seed of possibility regarding taking her ashes back to Bavaria. Coincidentally, Dad, Lou and my 10-year-old niece will also be in Germany in September, also visiting Mom's home town of Traunstein and also enjoying the Alps that Mom called home for 22 years. Unfortunately, Dad and I won't be there at the same time, but there are now two opportunities to bring Mom back -- and I just don't want to ignore that.
Even if we decide to bring Mom back to her heimat (home region), there are logistical concerns that we must deal with. Is it legal to scatter human ashes in Bavaria? Does one need a permit of some sort? How do we transport her ashes on the plane? Do we need to declare that? Who would do the scattering? How would my brothers feel about it?
Should I just let this go? Does it even matter?
Somehow, I think it does.
Why is it that I ONLY get writer's block when I'm being paid for my words, but I can just hammer away at the keyboard forever when I'm not being paid?
Parade magazine's cover story today is entitled "What to Do about Underage Drinking," and asks, should the drinking age be lowered? In light of yesterday's post and last night's family activity, I feel compelled to comment.
Here's what I wrote to Parade magazine -- and what was rejected because it was too long (and probably too rambling and verbose):
We have four kids ages 17 to 23, so this is a topic we deal with quite a bit.
Scary? You bet!
I believe that the Germans have the right idea: they grow up with a sip of beer here and there, and beer and wine can be legally consumed by teens, so it doesn't carry the glorified (or illegal) status that it has here. The big deal in
I believe that the group Choose Responsibility has the right idea: they promote intensive education and drinking licenses for 18-year-olds, akin to learner’s permits for young drivers. Get caught drinking before 18 or break any of the strict rules after that, and the license is gone. Just as we must teach our kids to drive responsibly, we must also teach our kids to drink responsibly. Both a drink and a car, in the hands of those who haven't learned about safety and responsibility, can cause great harm... especially when used together!
My husband and I might take a "serves you right" attitude about our hung-over teen feeling rotten all day on Sunday, but our rule about NEVER, EVER mixing alcohol with a vehicle is absolutely steadfast. It is our main "law" as parents of older teens and young adults, in fact, and our kids know that if they ever drive drunk or with someone who's drunk at the wheel, that's it. No more license, no more trust, no more "liberal parenting." It's a huge price to pay for them, especially since they've heard all their lives that, as parents, our "default setting" is trust; we trust them completely and totally until and unless they give us reason not to.
Communication is essential. We know our kids drink on occasion, and we talk about it often as a family. Just say no doesn't work -- regarding drugs OR alcohol. But "let's talk about last night," when done without repercussion and blame, and instead with a strong communicative connection and words of wisdom, can work. I'm not crazy about what I hear sometimes, but our kids certainly feel free to share their experiences as well as their feelings about alcohol with us -- and their sentences do often end with, "No Mom, no one got near a car..."
Many of our kids' friends, especially those with "if-I-ever-catch-you..." parents, keep their drinking a secret, and as a consequence they sometimes end up driving home drunk to meet a curfew. Sends shivers up my spine.
Last weeks family activity was going to a Seattle Sounders game. This week's activity was going to the home brew store, buying materials to make our own home brew, and spending the evening doing just that -- parents and young adult (17 - 23) kids, together. (And guess what? Buying all the materials to make beer is totally legal at any age!) We'll sip the beer we made together, probably at a big family dinner in a couple of months (because that's how long it takes the beer to do whatever it has to do).
And another rule: This is OUR beer to share among our family in our home. No sharing with underage friends allowed -- which is motivated partly by greed and partly to cover ourselves legally.
Years and years ago, Tom's brother Craig introduced Tom to home brewing, and although Peter and Danelle can't legally drink beer in America for another year, they're legally allowed to help brew the stuff in our kitchen on a Saturday night.
It's kinda like family game night, only different.
We're thinking of calling the first batch "BOO BREW" (or, if it doesn't turn out, "boo-boo"), using this photoshopped (adjective) photo as a label.
"Are you gonna facebook those pictures?"
"Facebook me when you get home!"
"Did you see what he facebooked yesterday?"
We saw it happen with Google (noun) years ago, and now we all google (verb) pretty much on a daily basis -- and chances are we've all even performed an "ego-google" by typing our own name into the search box. (Admit it, you've done it!)
But have you facebooked yet?
Until yesterday, I was a facebook virgin. But today I'm just slightly more cool because I am a member of that distinct and elite (ha -- can you call it elite when it has a bazillion-kajillion members?) Facebook (capitalized) group!
I think you might have to be a member to see my page (see reference to "elite" above), but come check it out! And if you're cool like me, we can even be friends!
I must admit, I feel kinda like I've been invited to a frat party...
