Chemotherapy. Just the word sounds like napalm or terrorist. It’s so gross sounding (and feeling from what I’ve been told). Though it’s some of the hardest stuff in the world, I’m grateful for the time I have with my mom right now and the beauty of taking care of her in such an important and meaningful way; just as she does for us.
I’ve just returned from an amazing week in Krakow, Poland. I won’t be able to go into full travel details here per usual, as I’ve been assigned that piece for a mortgage paying publication and they get first dibs, but I can tell you a few general things, first … go.
No huge surprise here, like most eastern European countries, in Poland, the dollar gets you far. The old town section of Krakow (the best part) is built around a central square, so if you start there, you’ll be in excellent shape. Park it at a café, sip coffee with steamed milk and just soak it in. Later in the day, add some sight seeing and prosecco, and by gum, you’ve got a vacation from everyday American life.
The overarching theme I walked away with was taking time and allowing myself the space to just be. For us, this year has been one of twists and turns, and sometimes it has taken me a minute (or months) to integrate them into my life. To take time to fully grasp and appreciate the concept of the life I’ve built filled with close friendship, a supportive and loving family, and creative work that inspires me.
This trip allowed me the space to wander, think, write, and observe. The women in Europe are so chic. You’d never catch one in mom jeans looking haggard. No sir, even on long flights minding children and loads of luggage they still manage to put on mile high heels and lipstick. Affection is displayed quite openly and I found myself nostalgic about romance and those little moments I may not notice in my Atlanta life. It could also be because of the reason we were there … love was in the air.
We made the trek to Poland for a dear friend’s wedding, which was, without question, the nicest wedding I’ve ever attended (and like most people in their thirties, I’ve attended many). Planning my own wedding years ago, I made decisions merely to get them crossed off my list, but here that didn’t appear to be the case, seemingly taking such care in every decision from meal, to reading selection, to wine list. The loveliest ceremony I’ve ever witnessed.
Now, back to my cultural observations about both in being in Europe and being surrounded by mostly Irish and English wedding attendees. It seemed like in this lot, if one were to wear Jimmy Choos it’d be because they are good, quality shoes that’ll last, not because it’s something to boast to friends while sitting in your 5,000 square foot home one payment away from foreclosure.
Nothing seems to be done in an ostentatious way, just sophisticated and full of grace. It’s not about a carat diamond ring; it’s about the sentiment behind it. I could use a lot more weeks of taking notice like that in my life. Seems less about what you have and more about how you take care of it. I’ll take the moments over the material any day.
Still in vacation mode–or as the international crew I’ve just spent the past week with–still on holiday.
I promise to return next week loaded with stories.
I’m off this week for my dear friend’s wedding in Krakow, Poland. I’ll be joined by my love and my twin sister, for what I imagine to be a quick trip loaded with belly laughs, fantastic food and drink, plenty of catching up with old friends, and a much needed change of scenery.
Aż spotkamy się znów … until we meet again.
We know what this road looks like, you see. In 2004, we walked it. I was a month shy of my one-year wedding anniversary when I was back in Kansas for my ten-year high school reunion. My mom had a mass on her neck. Just in the vicinity of her collarbone.
She actually discovered it while we were on talking on the phone one night a few weeks prior. Those days, I used to get off work late since my show was on the air from 10-11 p.m., and my routine was to call her after my show. She’d generally already be in bed, and was lying with the phone nestled in the crook of her neck. It was then that she felt something.
And now, she felt it again–this time in her armpit.
Non Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. That’s what she was diagnosed with as all of us kids and spouses sat in the room at KU medical center listening to mom’s oncologist tell us the stage (three), the prognosis (treatable, but could come back), and the treatment (chemo with one medicine, and a clinical trial) six years ago.
We’ve walked this road.
But, it’s back, as we all knew it would be, as Non-Hodgkin’s is a reoccurring cancer in most cases. This time, it’s stage two, but much more aggressive in its growth. As is her treatment plan (chemo with a five medicine cocktail and a much longer duration). Right now, we’re all sort of plowing through our schedules and getting reacquainted with words like scans, white-blood count, port, chemotherapy, treatment, mass, lymph nodes, insurance, and appetite.
My mom is incredibly strong. She got through this once, and we’re all hopeful and encouraged that she’ll do it again. But just because you’ve already walked it, ran it, crawled it, long-jumped it, it certainly doesn’t make it less scary of a path to walk.
Walking down the path to an open crater at Poas during my 30th birthday trip to Costa Rica.
One of my dearest friends is moving from Atlanta. After 17 years in this city, she and her husband are moving to L.A. Her move got me thinking of all the change this year has brought, not just for her, but so many people in my life (including us).
Not just in 2010, but for some reason around August/September of last year, there was a huge shift in our life. And right now, several of my close friends (and family) are entering life-altering transition phases. I have more than one friend going through a divorce. One of my twin’s friends came out of the closet, two children and a marriage later. My brother and his family, who’ve always lived near my mother in the Kansas City area, are moving to Dallas. Not all of this is bad. Closing the door on one life, opening another.
Friends of mine, after about 5 years of trying for a baby, just had their son in December. And we, I think, are closer to what we want than we have been in years, and it took a layoff for us to figure out what that truly was.
Contemplating in Charleston, SC.
The only common link that I can hold onto is that we’re all in our thirties. In my twenties, I took so many distractions as signs; now, I’m smart enough to know the difference. Not everything means something. Is it that in our thirties we have a clearer idea of what we want and are more focused on how to get it?
Does this economy have something to do with it? That people are fed up and are making a conscious choice to weed through the self-proclaimed bull shite? To start companies, and take stock in their own desires? In my twenties the book that captured it all was Quarterlife Crisis. I read it feverishly just after college and related to it like no other. The notion of, “Awesome. I have a degree, a car payment and rent due, now what?”
Mid-life and quarterlife crises are over-reported and over-exposed. Are they just a hall pass to act like an asshole? Because, I’ve found, every age and stage has its challenges, as well as the hopefulness for the next year. But, in my life, for right now, the parallels of major shifts, bravery and grabbing onto that life you want, even if it’s some 2,000 miles away, that’s the real stuff that defines you.
'All that Glitters' courtesy of Augusta Hyland, Atlanta-based Artist*
I’ve been thinking a lot about Southern women and the balance they have between their lives and their careers. Specifically Southern women writers. When I first moved to Atlanta it struck me how many people were not actually from here. They were transplanted here, mostly for work, like myself.
But, now, 10 years later, I’m surrounded by women who are actually from this area. I’m finding myself around especially strong women loaded with careers and creative aspirations (and all the while looking beautiful to boot).
Which sort of conflicts with the way I was raised. Growing up, you sort of had one or the other … not necessarily both (and certainly not at the same time). But, it seems like Southern women have mastered what their priorities are with a gentle balance of what’s expected of them and what they actually want for themselves. This is in sharp contrast to my own stereotypes of what I thought women from the South behaved and the life I assumed they wanted (an M.R.S. degree earned from a state school, cheering on SEC football while wearing a strapless dress and high heels).
Now, the word grace comes to mind when I think of Southern women. So, I’m looking towards women writers–Katherine Anne Porter, Harper Lee, Margaret Mitchell, Flannery O’Conner to allow me to be strong, yet graceful, in my writing and my life. And soaking in the Southern creative women surrounding me that embody it all and are guiding me down that path of elegance in life.
* For more of Augusta Hyland’s fantastic paintings (and great writing), check out her blog The View from my Studio Window.
Recently, my mind has been lost in thoughts of the next decade. I think it’s mostly because I’ve now been in Atlanta for ten years. It’s made me sort of want to reevaluate things on a life level, including the city I call my home. When I moved out here in 2000, I held a lot of titles-college graduate, daughter to a mother and father, single, scared, video journalist (a.k.a. the most entry-level position you can have at CNN), and Midwesterner (just to name a few).
I’ve still got that degree, my father died within 9 months of me moving here, I met my husband at CNN, my title changed from V.J. to producer by the time I was 26, and now, I no longer consider myself from the Midwest since the South is the longest I’ve ever lived in one spot. So here I am, examining the past decade and all my titles. Because as much as I hate to admit it, I care about those sorts of things, just as most of us do.
We all have them. But, what do they mean exactly? Are they simply just boxes people want to put us in or the frames around our life that fit other people’s mold of what they want us to be, or what we might call ourselves? Sometimes these titles actually fit with who we want to be, but often that’s not the case.
Going after what I want is never the issue with me. My husband describes my approach (lovingly, I think, err hope) as a bull in a china-shop. I’m not particularly proud of that. If there’s something within sight, I generally go after it and beat it into submission (although pretty sure said husband was not acquired that way).
Right now, I have career opportunities open to me. But, I’ve realized I make decisions quickly, not really giving the care and attention to if they are right or wrong decisions, just so that decision is made. Because of that, I don’t operate with the boundaries of just letting things play out, then a few years later I might think to myself, “hmm I could’ve let that rest a bit.”
I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be this decade or even just this year. Mother? Published author? Freelance writer? Communications Director? Editor? Or, answer D … all of the above? There are many people in my life struggling to come to terms with their own titles-estranged, unemployed, single, separated, mother, infertile, brave-it’s beyond career stuff.
What titles do you want to keep this year? Which ones would you throw out the window?
Just over a year ago, while walking our dog, my husband and I witnessed something horrific. We saw a stray Shepherd get hit by a speeding car. The noise of the crash was awful and the pain this dog was experiencing was dreadful to watch.
Before the dog got hit, he’d been haunting us for months. We’d see him wandering around the neighborhood, cold, unloved and appearing miserable. The night he was hit, we were actually reaching for what we thought was a collar. We’d finally managed to get close enough to him to look for a tag … it was a choke chain with nothing on it. As soon as we discovered this, he jumped into the street at the same time a car was driving down it.
It truly was an accident. Nobody that saw it would’ve ever faulted the driver; in his or her defense, the dog came out of nowhere. But, they stopped a few feet past where they hit the dog, sat for a minute or so, then drove off. My husband sat with the dog in the freezing January while I got our dog home and frantically called animal control.
The days following became a flurry of chain emails pleading for someone to take this dog on, a visit to animal control, a lot of crying, and just all around sadness about what we’d seen.
Then, Nan and Cheley came along. They agreed to foster the dog (which Fulton County Animal Control had named Boscoe), and post his leg surgery (he was scheduled for an amputation). And now, here we are. This unloved dog that no one really knew beyond being a stray has changed us all a little bit.
A few weeks ago I received this email:
I thought you would be interested to know that after several months of fostering we knew we couldn’t part with our beloved Boscoe. He has become a part of the family and we officially adopted him. You probably would not believe what a sweet, gentle, good-natured soul he is…I just thought you would like to know that you saved a very, very special dog and he is absolutely loved and adored in his forever home.
And just this past weekend we had a little dog reunion with Boscoe, allowing him meet our dog under better circumstances. The whole experience reminded us that all this started with one email to help one animal. But, without that moment we would not have had the opportunity to meet Boscoe, Nan, and Cheley, who, in the end, have given us all so much.
Series: What Was Ours by ceramic artist Ann Hazels
I’m fairly certain I’m not alone in my relationship metaphor in which one person is generally driving the train while the other person is passenger. In my marriage this is an accurate assessment, but who’s at the helm is constantly changing. But, in my parent’s relationship, for instance, my father was the sole driver, my mother, sitting passenger … for 33 years. And it worked for them.
The point of who’s driving is that I’ve noticed something with my girlfriends. Who they are in their relationship may not be who they are when they are with friends (myself included).
Need a valid example? My best friend and I cannot figure out what to order when we’re together and inevitably will end up with a bottle of wine (err who are we kidding?), a cheese plate, a bowl Marcona almonds, and a hangover from hell. But, I assure you–neither of us is this indecisive in our everyday life and relationships.
Panic Room: Selections from the Dakis Joannou Works on Paper Collection
I was always a pretty nervous kid. Worried, a lot and just overall anxious. About my grades, boys, my friends, my family. Typical stuff, I suppose, for a teenager.
But, now, it’s beyond anxiousness. You see, about the time of my 33rd birthday (this past November) I started having panic attacks. Some small, and some big, but all equally scary. These have been moments when I felt as if my world was closing in and my lungs could not counter the feeling, let alone manage to take actual gulps of air. And twice I found myself on the couch shaking uncontrollably for long stretches of time. I could always function and do the day-to-day after an episode, but in that moment, that actual moment I feel paralyzed-with fear, with illness, and well, with panic. But, then I get into a panic about when the next one will happen, to the point that it might trigger another. I assure you, it’s not a fun pattern to be trapped in.
I read somewhere that most people tend to stick to their goals better if they can visualize them. My mind is apparently wired the same as the majority, because if I see it, it’s generally easier for me to achieve it. In lieu of the standard resolutions for this coming decade, here’s my vision. My creative board of what I’d like to happen and what inspires me to make it a reality. Universe, are you listening? Bueller?… Bueller?… So, what’s on your vision board?
All photos courtesy "Mudbug"
I didn’t write this week’s post. An old friend tracked down through the power of social networking did. He has graciously written an extraordinary piece for danapop in what I think captures the true essence of the holiday season.
Happy holidays all.
dp
When I was a kid, I used to watch the holiday messages made by troops stationed overseas. I aspired to be like those soldiers on television. I envied those who were off in some far away country, doing interesting things. I wanted to give a big smile, a wave and tell everyone best wishes from somewhere nobody had ever heard of. Of course, when I was growing up, we were not at war.
I recently had the opportunity to make just such a video. You could record a holiday message in an area set aside in the morale tent. I sat down on the stool, looked at the camera, started to say something, but nothing came out. I looked at film tech and said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this.” I then grabbed my helmet and walked off to a meeting to talk about the latest insurgent tactics.
I am not sure why I couldn’t say anything. Maybe because it was September and it was 110 degrees. Maybe because Christmas was the last thing I was thinking about. Maybe because I didn’t want to make a video wishing everyone back home a Merry Christmas, when there was the possibility that I might be dead before the video even aired back home. And when I tried to say Merry Christmas in September, it just sort of…died on my lips.
Time back home is marked by holidays and the passage of seasons. The hands on the clock and the days on the calendar have meaning. Around September, when the air first starts to get a chill, we pull our sweaters out of the closet and can’t help, but think that soon it will be Christmas.
Oh, give me a home
Where the buffalo roam
The state song of Kansas is “Home on the Range.” I remember squawking it off-key at the top of my lungs as a child during school concert performances. Growing up in Leavenworth and Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas, you’re always aware of the prisons. There they are. In my child mind I knew it housed and employed people, but that was the extent. In high school my biggest problems (thankfully) were worrying if anyone thought it looked strange that my boyfriend was 6’2” and I was only 5’2” and if I could get the timing right on Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch’s ‘Good Vibrations’ for a cheerleading halftime performance. But, the prisons were there the whole time. I didn’t see what they really meant, the strange juxtaposition against Leavenworth’s charming downtown filled with historic buildings–one man’s idea of home in sharp contract with another.
Watch any military movie and some superior will shout at his enlisted soldier to shape up or he’ll be transferred to Leavenworth (meaning Ft. Leavenworth, which is the U.S. military’s only prison). Our house on post, the one I lived in from second grade until sixth, stood on a hill overlooking the back of the prison. People used to ask our family all the time if we were frightened to live there, and I don’t remember ever being scared. Even as a child I sort of thought the last place an escaped prisoner would want to be is hanging around in the same area he just tried to rid himself of.
Once we moved off post, to The Boss’s House, we were less than a mile from Leavenworth’s federal prison. Nicknamed, “The Big House,” it has housed the likes of Al Capone, Leonard Peltier, and more recently, Michael Vick.
Dahlia Lithwick wrote an amazing piece for Slate that stuck with me as it delves into topics and issues I won’t even begin to pretend I’m intelligent enough to bring up regarding the prison system in the United States. It’s incredibly well written and a must-read. I suppose I give more thought about the justice and sentencing more than the average person because of where I’m from. But, when you pass the federal prison in Leavenworth, one thing that always sticks out to me isn’t the barbed wire, or the guards, or the gates … it’s the buffalo. Some yards from the prisoner’s cages are buffalo roaming, grazing and semi-free.
Since the culture of prison is so engrained in Leavenworth’s society, it comes as no surprise that a friend of mine from my high school graduating class is tied to the prisons. Both his parents were incarcerated during pivotal moments in his life. He broke the cycle and is strong enough and man enough to speak about it today. I’m so proud to share this Q&A a longtime in the making.
Especially now with the holidays approaching it’s the age-old lesson of–it doesn’t matter where you are, someone always has it better, but we must remember those who have it worse. We decided together to keep his identity anonymous, but his story could be anyone. For me, this story is one worth hugging everyone in your life a little tighter and never allowing the past dictate the future.
(more…)
How I wonder what you are.
As a child, I was obsessed with outer space. If I had to guess now, it was more likely the idea of a vast universe with all sorts of matter floating around. It intrigued me and filled my mind with curiosity for years, the existential questions of what is really out there, the unknown. Because I’m so familiar with these thoughts in my own mind, I often wonder why is it so scary, the unknown? I’ve always wrestled with it. Now, the full disclosure–after thinking our life was going one way, it’s clearly not.
This was supposed to be our baby year. This was supposed to be my writing year. This was the husband gets a promotion at work year so I could have both the writing and us working on trying for a baby. Then, the economy tanked, just after I’d started up my business.
Then, my husband’s company kept eliminating positions until finally, while I was in California (which you’ll read all about next week) visiting my sister, my husband calmly (err, sort of calmly) told me he’d been laid off. The news was delivered in a tone I recognized from five years prior when I was post-appendectomy with my husband tearing through the Piedmont Hospital hallway screaming, “My wife is throwing up!” and me sitting in the mechanical bed covered in vomit wearing my coke bottle glasses, crying, “I don’t know why you love me!” We really know how to hold it together, the both of us.
It didn’t come as a huge surprise. We’d been waiting for this day for a while, as the writing has been on the wall for ages now. But, if you ignore it enough, it goes away, right? Let me tell you, waiting for the shoe to drop doesn’t make it any less scary. Or easier. So, there’s quite a bit of unknowns at the moment. More than I can begin to wrap my head around.
