And wow, did I know it!

I fancied myself a bit of a poet from my preteen years until my early twenties. (I believe we've gone over this a few times before, like here and here for starters.) The mid to late eighties material sits safely in the pages of my flannel fabric covered book. 

The early eighties stuff though? That stuff was deemed too risky by an angsty teenager to have laying around where it could someday be found. I threw that fanciful floral covered book in the garbage. Gasp! I know there was a poem I wrote for my sister when she was a baby, and I am sure it was fantastic (insert sarcasm font), but I do not recall any other muses I had back then. Rest assured though, I am certain the quality of all of the poems was horrendous. I'm not even going to try to make myself feel better by making considerations for my young age or ambition. Instead, I was just grateful nobody would ever have to consider the material again! Unfortunately, that young girl had no sense of what joy that fodder could provide for me decades later. But then...

There I was one afternoon, doing whatever it is I typically do to avoid housework, when a Facebook messenger alert sounded. Knowing instantly that it had to be something important, I ran to my phone. A message came asking if I was the Andrea that went to Stonehedge Elementary school, because if so, the sender was a really good friend of mine in sixth grade. Indeed, that was me. She said she had something to show me that she had just found...

I am going to save you the trouble of trying to decipher my, albeit awesome, cursive writing. (Moment of silence for that dying art.) Here is what it says...

Amy's Poem

Amy's ways will be missed by everyone

You helped many soccer games be won

Science class will turn rotten overnight

Because without Amy, nothing seems right

There will still be Margaret, Heidi, Kelly and everyone

But nobody else is full of laughs and fun

This poem is very true

When Amy leaves we'll all be blue

I hope I see her agaiin

Becuse she's a really terrific friend.

To Amy,

You're one of the best friends I've got

Keep this poem and I'll appreciate it a lot!

P.S. Thanks for keeping me laughing. I'll still think of you even if you don't keep this long. Just don't immediately throw it out, alright?

First things first, I should probably issue a public apology to Margaret, Heidi and Kelly. A girl's gotta rhyme though, am I right? Besides, it's not like they saw this work of art, as I surely slipped the paper to Amy privately. Oh wait, another message from Amy came through to tell me that her notes indicated that I read this poem over the loudspeaker on her last day at our school before moving. Who on earth did I think I was? Did I use up a lifetime of confidence on that morning? I was fairly certain she was mistaken, but did not say so because she had such documentation. As I sit here now though, months later, I do have some recollection of walking down the hall and also being near the microphone.

By the way, I can't even be mad about the condition of the loose leaf paper, nor question that stain on it. It is from 44 years ago!

I hope this story amuses you even half as much as it does me. I know there is someone who might still read this blog who has one of my masterpieces in her high school yearbook! (Hi Greta!) Perhaps some of you would like me to write an ode to you? I can take requests and promise the same level of craftsmanship. 

Gratitude

Remember how November was Gratitude month? I guess that means it was last month when I created a totally unique title for this post, loaded up the photos and then got distracted by something shiny. That doesn't really explain where I was for the five months prior though. I'm going to leave the title because my brain might melt under the pressure of trying to conjure a new one, and I am generally filled with gratitude this month as well. 

I spent a lot of time wishing I had written a blog post, as if I had no control over this space and what happens here! It was much like sitting on the couch wishing there were homemade chocolate chip cookies on the counter (which I often do, as you probably guessed), while pretending I have no free will to enter the kitchen to cream some butter and sugar together. The important thing is that we're here now, so let's see what I thought was important to share...

Dr. Daughter! She did it - she's a physical therapist now!

We were so proud!

SO PROUD!

Then she packed up and shuffled off to a job in Buffalo!

Seemed like the right time to give her a brand new, not yet loved, Lambie. (I'm not crying, you're crying!)

Still seems worth mentioning.

Not quite as inviting.

They are probably not a threat right now under the snow.

Oh dear, not going to think about what happened to that little friend.

There was a hotel that could not care for its artificial plants.

There were fond memories of that time, over ten years ago, when my friend Mary dumped a double batch of chex mix on the kitchen floor. She celebrated by dumping another roasting pan full.

Apparently my four year old nephew and I share a need for the same sort of self help books.

This is my snail. I spend a lot of time looking at them. When I go near the tank to drop in a food disc, they fling themselves off the glass and gently fall down to the gravel.

Sometimes the specials are so special, you can't say what they are.

My own sad little island.

And I went on a journey taking a bunch of photos that I thought were cool. Charlotte!

I do love a Gerber daisy.

And a rose...

...is a rose!

So those are just some odds and ends. I have another big thing to share, but am going to wait. Mainly, I don't want to compete with the nearly seven month overdue graduation photos that were promised in my last post. Also, if I share the other news now, I'm afraid I won't find the ambition to come back soon! Thank you for being here! Be nice to yourself today!

What would it take…

...to bring me back? Well, I really thought it was going to be the elementary school friend who reached out to me on facebook to share a poem I wrote her in sixth grade (don't worry, the critical elements of that tale are saved in drafts). The day I mailed the last tuition payment for daughter...

...and even took the photo to show you? She's graduating next Friday with her doctorate in physical therapy! (I'll save a proper amount of gushing fr when it's official with photos.) Or another failed shopping trip...

...that certainly made me long for needing to wear this?

But alas, I could not just...

...nor could I kiss it goodbye.

(Are you okay with me telling you that somebody left these for a grieving family at work this past weekend? You shouldn't be! The color? The shape? The horror!)

I thought it might have been the post-it note I left on the desk in the kitchen where it could float into my line of sight as a gentle reminder...

...at the time I was either very amused or rather distressed that I had just caught myself mid-pep talk realizing I was not making sense, as ships don't have wheels. I do not even know which phrase I failed to turn there. I do recall feeling that the shit was indeed far too scattered to collect, but cannot say for sure which show in particular it had escaped from. Did I file my nails instead? Probably not as that task constantly eludes me.

I've been here through ups, downs, randomness, abc shenanigans, capes and mannequins. So what did it take to bring me back to this space after four months? This...

...this right here from my dumb daily mental health walk. Theories? Wrong answers only, please!

No place like this home

As it often happens when there are long between times in my visits here, I had a little story to share, but realized it would be a tough stand alone plucked out of a context you may not all be privy to. Then I thought about all of the times I fully intended to provide the backdrop, even going so far as to jot some notes in my phone. (And here we thought my phone was strictly a storage component for fascinating photographic evidence of the oddities I see out in the world.) So here's the scoop, this is where I work now...

...Truth be told, I don't actually work in this specific space. This is called the "showroom", and quite frankly, in the over eighteen months I have been working at the funeral home, I still can't get past that terminology and something about the new car vibes it evokes. Anyhow, I am a funeral assistant/greeter/water getter/mint refiller/tissue hander outer (the list goes on). I really and truly love the job. It is sort of amusing when I reflect back on registering for classes as a junior in college and nearly broke out in a rash at the mere thought of possibly having to sign up for a psych elective on grief and dying in the event that I was shut out of anything else that would fit my schedule. Decades go by and life changes us on some levels I guess.

How did I end up finding this opportunity you may wonder, as the path from working at a nursery school to a nursing home to a funeral home may not be an often traveled one? I'll try to give the short version of that story...When I went to help plan Jeff's arrangements after he passed, the funeral director was a friend from high school I hadn't seen since graduation. We caught up a little bit and eventually talked about the possibiity of me being able to join the staff as a greeter. There were some fits and starts in making progress toward that end, and then the pandemic hit. I'd given up hope on getting the opportunity, but when I called the funeral home to let them know Marlene's time was nearing, my friend told me they were actully ready to hire. I guess that explains the bare bones logistics of how this came to be. In terms of what made me think I was mentally prepared to try this? I knew I was not eager to watch someone slip away again; however, perhaps there was a place for me in the aftermath where I could help pick up at least some small piece.

I signed some paperwork and crossed my fingers that I would be able to ease into things. In my head that meant that hopefully the first several services I'd work would be for folks who had led long and wonderful lives. Make no mistake, I was not in denial about the inevitable sadness, but thought maybe there was a hierarchy of sorts to work through. I quickly saw the role as finding some small way to make the worst of days for someone just a bit less awful, or at least not worse. There were some learning curves of course. The first of which was being comfortable only having water or mints to offer. I wanted to bake and comfort these people with warm chocolate chips! I could not fix the sadness, but could try to ease some of the discomfort. A lot of people are simply uncomfortable walking into a funeral home, and a smile and general directions for where to go help ease some of those nerves. I am extremely lucky to work with funeral directors who are amazing at what they do, and set the bar high for the level of service we provide.

As far as keeping myself together? Here is what I now know about my relationship with the families we serve and a message I hope to convery to them somehow...

• If you are going to bring bagpipes, I am going to cry.
• If you are going to have uniformed firefighters doing a "last call", I am going to cry.
• Several other scenarios will also bring me to tears, not because I am thinking about my own losses in this life, but because I have been given the honor to peek into the window of your loved one's life and am truly saddened and sorry for your loss.
• I will stand with you in your grief or I will stand nearby and hold a box of tissues. 
• If you need to ask for a minute, do so, If you want to share a story, do so. If you want to laugh, do so.
• This is your time and your grief. I can be there to partake in it, or simply be a witness to it, or can leave the room for you to experience it privately.

None of this has caused me to step outside my comfort zone (granted I have questioned lately whether I actually have an true comfort zone). No, that didn't happen until I had/got to drive the hearse.

Hey friend!

Happy New Year! I hope you are well! I'm feeling a little awkward and shy just showing up back here after so long. The more time that went by, the more exciting, or at the very least interesting, I thought my return had to be. It is certainly not out of the ordinary for me to put unnecessary pressure on myself, but that doesn't mean it makes sense.

In lieu of the daunting task of making resolutions that I stand to crumple under the weight of, maybe this is the year I will just relax! With that spirit in mind, I decided I could treat this foray back into this space with the easy breeziness of seeing an old friend. (Yeah, I admit that there have been many times I have indeed stressed over seeing an old friend.) Maybe this can just be like when you see an old chum and the banter just starts while the time simply falls away. Let's start right in and try it with some things I've been saving on my phone to share with you.

No one was physically harmed in this off season trip into the changing room...

...but morale was low upon exiting as all items were surrendered to the attendant. These didn't even get taken off the rack...

...as those seem like a series of words that do not get better when strung together. In other puzzling items up for sale, we have these ladies...

...who are putting their best feet forward!? Let's keep shopping!

Why the name?

Why? Here's something I had not previously considered...

...hm! I guess I ought to learn how to put makeup on...

...and look for a bra to fit this perfume?

Again, why?

I sure will! Although that almost looks like fun! This on the other hand...

...is certainly beyond any hairstyle I've attempted. I don't know why, but that contraption is giving me gyn office vibes. And now a trip to the little girls' room in Canada...

...where their lady symbol seems very fit and their other restroom offerings...

...are maybe a little too on the nose!

Gotta hand it to Ottawa, Canada though, for having among other fabulous things, an incredbile Bills bar to watch a game at...

...and of course, some very necessary groceries... 

...(excuse the regular old barbecue chips that I erroneously grabbed instead of the ketchup ones!)

In other news, we got my husband one of those video bird feeders.

He (my huband that is) is doing well, aside from batting his most frequent visitor.

Let's get together again soon, shall we?! 

A PSA…

...about PSA.

For much of this year, I have tried to embrace my role as supportive wife, telling myself that the tales to tell belonged to my husband and that he was the one who needed to be lifted up...by me. Please note that it says I "tried". Despite my notions and what started as good intentions, I also pouted, cried, panicked, gobbled cookies, scarfed candy, ate ice cream and leaned heavily on a very small group of poor unfortunate souls who were kind and brave enough to keep showing up and weather my behavior. September is prostate cancer awareness month, and I am now very aware thankyouverymuch. Just typing that word, "cancer", yuck.

It started with a couple of slightly elevated PSA (Prostate Specific Antigen since we are aware now) numbers, but zero symptoms. Age is just a number, as are PSAs, but a not alarmingly high number for said age is apparently still suspicious when it's been creeping upward. Next up was an MRI that we'd hoped would rule out any concern; but, instead showed some suspicious areas, so an utrasound guided biopsy followed. The biopsy results were available in the portal (which sounds much more mystical than it is), and the only googling we allowed ourselves was "how to interpret biopsy results" with their accompanying gleason scores and such. I could say the words out loud about what the biopsies showed, as in "the biopsies showed some cancer", but it took me longer to get the whole phrase "my husband has cancer", as if somehow the samples had come from some place that didn't involve him. Truth be told, I did ask the google a couple of other things like "what happens when a prostate is removed?" and some brief glimpses down whatever rabbit hole that query opened up. 

I sat at the edge of the frame for the zoom appointments with the urologist, radiation oncologist and then surgeon taking as many notes as I could in the event that my husband's mind was as filled with mush by it all as mine felt. Surgery or radiation - the doctors told him it was his choice because the success rates as well as rates for reoccurence were the same with either, as they believed the cancer was contained in his prostate due to his not terribly high numbers and the MRI. I told him it was his choice, because it was his body, and I kept my opinions out of his ears because most of the decision process seemed to involve very personal things. He opted for surgery. He reached out to his own tribe and got a couple of phone numbers for guys who had also had the surgery so he'd have a better idea of what to expect. I was filling in the blanks finding out what kind of underwear go best with a catheter. I really struggled with those logistics.

I was confident in the surgeon and the success of the surgery itself, but was still unsettled. I knew the operation and subsequent recovery would be life changing for some period of time with a potential to remain so. While I kept telling myself these possibilities were his concerns, I eventually lost the will to pretend they wouldn't become mine as well. I heard a bit of "well if he was gonna have cancer, that's the one to have".  Ugh. I know it was well intended, but no. The reality is that nobody really wants to talk about the private lives of prostates. It's awkward, and we can just leave it at that.

We read all of the paperwork the doctor's office sent us, noting the discrepancies on various pages. We weren't positive what to be prepared for, but told ourselves he was ready. Over five months after hearing that the MRI was concerning, the big surgery day came at the end of July. Five months sounds like a long time to agonize over something...because it is! The robotic surgery was to take ninety minutes tops, and I felt confident that I could keep my shit together in the hospital waiting room for that long. I was given my husband's number and pretended he was on some exotic trip while I kept watch on the color coded flight board for his status.

At the two hour mark, snacking and reading were no longer useful distractions and I entered the talking to strangers phase of panic. Luckily there was another designated waiter nearby willing to engage in mindless banter with me. When the surgeon appeared and asked me to come to a private room with him to talk, I clumsily attempted to gather all of the various bags I'd brought like a very nervous pack mule. He offered to help me which just seemed so ridiculous after what he'd been up to that whole time. We finally gathered me and my stuff and he very slowly gave me a recap. I suppose I could've warned him that I am a "tell me everything is ok quickly and then you can elaborate" kind of gal. He was pleased with how things went, saw something funky on the bladder, but the frozen sample showed no cancer and lymph nodes looked good. If he was pleased, I was certainly pleased.

The kids had asked that they be notified as soon as the dad jokes started flowing, and my hsband did not disappoint. I guess I had been expecting a groggy and maybe slightly queasy patient. Instead I was presented with a man using his hands to pretend he was parting the crowd in the hallway who ordered this for his post op lunch...

...and ate every last bit of it along with that pitcher of water. We knew there was a chance he could come home that day, provided he passed the milestones on the board like pain management, eating, drinking and walking. He reported his pain level as a 2 and we've already discussed lunch. The doctor just looked at me and said "he's very strong" and I admit to being as surprised as he was. My husband was just laying on the bed, wide-eyed with zero naps in sight. Our third nurse for the day took the stance that the catheter bag would be my responsibility despite how involved I tried to appear in reading paperwork when she started talking about it. My husband's responsibility was to just continue to lay there being strong while I read things I didn't want to read and looked at things I didn't want to see. We left the house at 5:30 that morning and pulled back in the driveway at 5:30 that afternoon (after stopping to grab a few dinner provisions because that lunch wasn't going to hold him over) with one of us a bit more rested than the other.

My husband works from home and has Fridays off. Since his surgery was on a Friday, he did not tell anybody at work how he spent the day, and just shuffled down the hall Monday morning, business as usual. The catheter bag became business as usual as well, aside from one incident that still baffles us in which he dropped the bag getting in the shower somehow causing a tangle that took an enginering marvel to outmaneuver. That led to his first bout of light headedness with the added convenience of soaking wet and nakedness. I just sat on the bathroom floor near tears as he kiddingly asked how my summer was going.

Just a guy out walking his catheter

I found myself following some new social media links...

...and that summed things up nicely.

We went for his follow up appointment one week later, and bid a not so fond farewell to "Pee-ter", as my husband had named the catheter, (Dad joking still intact). The labs had not come back at that time, but it really felt like somehow in one long short week the first hurdle was far behind us. I was not home the following week when the doctor called to say that some cancer cells showed up on the vesicles and so radiation may be on the agenda. Therefore, I did not get to ask eleventy-seven follow up questions. We will learn more at his follow up to the follow up appointment next week. I looked back through my notes the other day from the first three appointments and did not see that possibility mentioned. I suppose maybe it was just a given? We were deflated is probably the best way to put it. Since radiation was a treatment option to begin with, we are confident the cancer will be kicked. There isn't really any point to spending time regretting the surgery because we cannot give it back.

I swear this post is not intended as a pity party you accidentally were invited to, although ice cream is about to be served. It's about awareness. We are so grateful for my husband's doctor who was closely watching those PSA numbers and made the referral to a urologist. I am fortunate that my husband actually does go for routine medical appointments and follows the advice given therein. If you have a guy in your life who doesn't like to take care of himself or go for checkups, get bossy!