Familiar Footing
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.
Third Life Crisis
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.
By George
Kelli Fletcher & Allison Beale of George PR
A good publicist can be a journalist’s best friend. A bad one, my worst nightmare.
I “met” Allison Beale last year while trying to get an interview with a company she represented for danapop. She coordinated that interview, and then many others to follow. So, after many emails, interviews and a few music suggestions later … we’ve struck up a bit of friendship all without having ever met each other in person.
And for the record, she’s just about the furthest thing from a nightmare I’ve ever “met.” Her company, George PR turns 5 this month, so in honor of that and all the great things she and her sister Kelli do, here’s a little Q&A with the girls from George in which we talk Skype, sisters, cities, and of course, spin…
George PR, may this be your best year yet!
Tied to a Title
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).
The Reunion
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.
The Flip Side of Coupling
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.
The Panic Room
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.
Vision Board
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?
Combat Christmas
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.
A Clicquot Worthy Work Life
Ah the art of Savoir-Faire. Does it really come down to a good haircut and good champagne? Maybe.
Merriam Webster’s definition of the French noun is this:
sa⋅voir-faire
Capacity for appropriate action; especially: a polished sureness in social behavior.
I find it funny right now, in this economy, I’ve gotten a part-time job to fill in some holes with my freelance work while my husband and I both search for full-time work again post his layoff. Oh right, the funny (ironic) part–the 20 hours a week I am working at a gourmet retail store called Bella Cucina Artful Food is the best 20 hours a week I spend. What does that say? I adore it. I love my coworkers, love the product, love our customers and honestly cannot believe I get paid to chat about food all day. That’s interesting to me, considering I’ve spend the better part of my adult life getting the good degree, landing the coveted position at top companies–and for what? To find out I adore retail (or maybe it’s the chatting about luxurious foods all day part)?
At any rate, I don’t think Mireille Guiliano (the queen of Savoir Faire) would be all that surprised. See, she was CEO of Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin Champagne and took it to 25% share of the market while she was at the helm (she was there from 1984 until her retirement in 2007). And she’s recently written a fabulous business book called Women, Work & The Art of Savoir Faire: Business Sense & Sensibility.
This little gem is one part business book, one part style and etiquette. The perfect read in today’s corporate culture.
