One Day

This is a picture of my youngest cousin Robyn. While she is only in grade five she has been my sanity since we arrived in Calgary at 7:00 Christmas morning.

So what can I do? What am I supposed to do?? I have no idea. I am at a loss for words. I have no idea what to think, what to say, what to do, where to go, whether to suck it up or to hide under my hat.


So what am I doing? Allowing Robyn to cling to my side. We have played almost 100 games of pool in two days, darts, almost every board game in their closet, made cinnamon buns, watched Christmas movies, and coloured. We have gone for walks, sent emails, and taken Booker the Bear for a small tour of the Christmas lights.

Is that fair? No. Not at all.


However I am reminded of a song entitled "One Day I Walk" sung by the Rankin Family (written by Bruce Cockburn) where the chorus goes:

One day I'll walk in flowers

One day I'll walk on stones,

Today I'll walk in hours,

One day I shall be home.

Days spent in Calgary in a life which is not mine at the moment, pretending that everything is healthy and wonderful and I am bald by choice... are days of walking on stones. If I walk for hours, I could get away from here and return home. Hmmmm....

What makes me... me?

Okay so I may have broken a few rules, but everything is okay because they are only really guidelines (or so I am telling myself). BUT, it was all for a good reason - in order to finish Christmas shopping, I had to at least start it. So, that is exactly what I did. I started my Christmas shopping. Now I won't say who my partner in crime was, as to keep them from getting in any trouble, but just picture this...

We went into this outrageously overpriced store so that this person could get something for someone on their list. The store was not only insanely overpriced, it was crazy busy. As an attempt to hasten the waiting around, I kindly offered to wait and hold a spot in the line up while this person went to look for the Christmas-list-item. So there I am, minding my own buisness... when all of a sudden, this person returned to take their spot in the line with me and the world stopped.

Just as a side note, you need to know what I was wearing. Or, you don't need to know, but I wish to share.

Wearing blue (women's) pants from MEC, I had a pair of running shoes (again, women's) on my feet as to keep them from hurting with all the walking... I had my winter coat on (style? Women's) as well as nice sweater on underneath that (a sweater that you wouldn't be caught dead in if you were a guy). I was wearing my ball cap - not because I thought it would look "cool" but because I wouldn't be caught dead wearing a fleece pink hat in public and risk being seen by someone I know.

Anyway, so there I am, standing in this line up - when my partner in crime returns with the "to be purchased" items. The woman who was standing behind me in the insane line up (who was also holding a spot for her friend) makes the comment, "Oh, excuse me... I'm sorry, but the line up is all the way back there" pointing rudely to the end of the line which could no longer be seen. In response, the person I am holding the spot for motions towards me as to say I'm with her. This lady pipes up again and says the most dreaded 4 words anyone has ever heard spoken before...

(Please brace yourself... the words will not be spoken again...)

"OH! You're with HIM!"

In the spur of the moment, instinct told me to jump this woman... to beat her legs to a pulp and leave her on the floor in the pieces that she just shattered me into. I had the sudden urge to plug each one of her hairs from her head - hoping that the pain might just skim the hurt she inflicted.

However, the person I was with had their arm around my waist and had pulled me to their side so fast, and so strongly (this is not a force to be fought... they are slightly stronger than what I anticipated) that I truly couldn't have turned around to beat this lady if I had no other purpose in life.

What is it that makes me who I am then because a certain office-occupier down the hall continues to reassure me with the words, "you are still you"... but events like this, really make me wonder.

The last time that I checked, I was not a "HIM." Perhaps I need to check again. Nope, definately not a "HIM"...

So because I do not wear high heels, a bottle of perfume, two canisters of hairspray (although there are plans to use that much if that is what it takes to re-attach the strands of hair in time for Christmas celebrations), disgusting old lady clothes, or huge dangly earrings, I am not a HER??

Well then, apparently I have been a HIM my entire life. Why didn't someone bother to tell me sooner so that I could have adjusted to the fact that I was a HIM and not a HER and everything would have been just fine.

I somehow think that these are not the standards. So I went back to the drawing board.

While there have been huge internal changes as to how things look and feel, the only thing (other than occasional flushed skin or bruises the size of Ontario) that is visibly different is the fact that I no longer have hair or eyebrows.

Therefore, I hereby solemnly swear by anything important and valuable - even if it is only my fish Jeremiah - I will have hair for Christmas.

I will hot glue gun it, white glue it, tape it, gel it, hairspray it (even if it requires 2 cans of it), velcro it, or sew it back on (yes, I am willing to boil water and soak a needle and thread and sew each strand of hair back onto the outer layer of skin on my head, even if it may lead to some bleeding - at least there will not be any infection!) OR any fine combination of these things. I am willing to experiment and willing to go where no HER has gone before!

Wish me luck.

Calling for your help!: The Littlest Twinkle.

The Littlest Twinkle

I have to be honest with you. There was one person whom I was absolutely terrified of. Perhaps it was my upbringing in the Roman Catholic Church and the frustrations and instilled fear from the Archbishop of Edmonton, or perhaps it was the simple fact that I truly respected her so much, I feared doing wrong.

I now work for the Holy-Mitered One as well as greatly respect the person she is and the inspiration she always seems to provide.

I have provided an entry of a recent phone conversation (or a small portion of it) following this blog and could share so many more.
Bishop Victoria is truly my hero.

Such a wonderful woman, her weakness is that she gets this little twinkle in her eyes before she says anything really important. I felt of all the pictures I have with her, (including the wonderful one from my reception into the Church) this one shows particularly well the “I have something really important to tell you” twinkle. As Bob McKeon was lining up to take the picture, only having met her once, she leaned over and said, “We are taking this one for Archbishop Thomas Collins” and before the next said, “and this one for the Pope.”

And people say that she doesn’t have a sense of humour, HA! I personally find her hilarious – perhaps because we both take the road of the “dry” form of humour… who knows.

What I do know is that over the course of the past month, while there have been moments of, “I hate it when you are right and so I am frustrated with you right now because that is all I can do” there have also been those great lengths of silence as I sit there and chew on what she has just said in awe of the fact that she has read my mind, my fears, my heart and has done so, so very accurately.

She knows when to cry with you or when to tell you an outrageous joke – she knows just how to hug that (even though you doubt) you know that everything is going to be okay.
She knows what to say to keep you going, way long after you can’t and she knows when silence is making a stronger point than words. She has a way of putting perspective on the situation at hand that I could never do on my own and there is something about her tone of voice that makes you trust deep down inside that she just might know what she is talking about.

Rumor has it, on her way to the airport, she actually made a stop at the Cross for no other reason than to share an Episcopal hug with a terrified young patient who wanted to be anywhere else in the world.

She has given her promise to have fun and enjoy the Christmas vacation, asking last night about a possible field trip to Elk Island Park.

She knows.
She is more than “The Bishop”
She is a knight in God’s armor, crusading against all that hurts, is evil, or is just downright crappy.
She provides sources of continual warmth to survive the long, cold, somewhat sleepless nights.
She takes you under her wing and on the occasions where it is too crappy, too scary, too exhausting, or too difficult to proceed on your own, she carries you – if not in prayer, in person.
She reassures you of the wonderful rejoicing that can come of the healing power of Christ, even when your eyes fill with tears when you read it and your heart with fear.
She gets the littlest twinkle in her eyes and you are warmed to the core and “know” deep down inside that everything will be okay… you witness the love of God and the compassion and healing power of Christ in that twinkle… and best of all, when the world seems like it is against all odds of making things easy, it is that twinkle and inner strength that you can fall back upon and truly trust.

I know that she doesn’t have a computer at home and that she knows nothing of this blog to read or check what is happening on computers in the airport, (as she can do with the Diocesan webpage – funny story for another time) but if you see her or talk to her or send her emails, if you could help me out – that would be awesome. If you could please pass on the very important message, I would really appreciate it.
“Someone has a message for you Bishop, rather simple but rather important: Thank you!”

Thank you for your help!! Hopefully she’ll understand if she hears it enough.

What I can control...(or lack thereof)

As I lay here under a quilt, an Oilers fuzzy blanket, my flannel/fuzzy blanket, a quilt and an afghan with a toque pulled over my ears, two pairs of socks, flannel jammies, mitts, and a hoody, I have reached the conclusion that I have no control over my body's temperature.

As tears slowly roll from my eyes to my pillow, more rapidly picking up the pace as the night progresses, I understand the concept of being 'emotionally uncontrollable' because I couldn't make them stop if I tried anything else.

As my thumb lingers around my mouth and my spare hand goes straight to my hairless head, I finally comprehend the fact that I have no control over habits that have been strictly formed in the last 21 years.

As I lay awake until the wee hours of the morning, trying to figure out where I went wrong, what I did that was unhealthy and trying to label some form of cause-effect behaviour because that is easier to cope with than accepting the fact that this whole disease and course of treatment is by mere chance and a bad luck of the draw, I surrender to the thought of having control over my thought patterns and stimulation.

As I wonder and worry about people I have spoken with throughout the day and those that I haven't, concerned that I said the wrong thing, was too impatient, or just didn't have the gumption to pick up the phone and try to explain in detail how I feel or what my day has been like, I struggle to accept that which I can not change.

However, I have control on my attitude in which I start the day with, the presence and grace that I execute my routine with, and the perseverance that I "walk on" with in spite of all odds. It's not a lot, I know... but it's something. It is the only piece of control I still have in my life and so you can imagine the horror when someone tries to tell me how to go about one of these aspects of daily living... tries to dictate the minor details. If only they could have the grace to go through that which they can not control, everything just may be managable. Not ideal, but managable. Instead, perhaps in trying to fix their past or paint their future, they decide the life decisions of others.

If only they would have known, they would have realized that they are not alone.

They don't have that right nor that priveledge. They have a match and are standing on the bridge they wish to burn. If only...

A Night Prayer

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord, my hair to keep
To guide safetly through the night and in my head in mornin' light.
And if I die before I wake, I pray the Angels my hair to take,
To mend and fix and spray back on - so when I'm buried, my hair can grow on.

"If you can't say anything nice...

then don't say anything at all."

Although I was not particularily a fan of Bambi when I was younger, this phrase has more meaning now than it ever has.

Today there was a particular individual who seemed to feel at liberty to say what was on their mind, but they felt it was important to say it directly to me. I won't disclose the circumstances, nor the individual who is being discussed, but I will say that I am left - sitting here completely shocked and appalled. Perhaps a little hurt or offended if I stew any longer. While the phrases were split up into different parts, this person knew darn well what they were doing, saying, and harming in their path of destruction.

Then again, perhaps I am the one at fault... I blog my thoughts, frustrations, concerns, queries, tears, and strength as though no one else is reading it. I speak words of truth and honesty, attempting with the most grace possible, to carry on with my head held high.

They seemed to think otherwise, and voiced those thoughts.

Do I have to like this? No, and I am not the person who will pretend to like it. Does the fact that I hate spending my mornings hooked up to an IV at the age of 21 have anything to do with rebelling against anyone in particular? No, but anyone in my position will rebel, I know that for a fact. I spent a good chunk of my morning crying and mourning the loss of what I thought was a friendship when the Holy-Mitred one, who slightly less liked by others out there, told me that she reacted the same way... while being much older and wiser.

I acknowledge the fact and would like to say that there are moments when I don't wish to talk to people, see people, or be told what to do by people who really and truly - have no idea what walking in these shoes is like.

I don't need pointless advice or hurtful and rather direct words shot in my direction, which I think - is the same thing that Thumper was saying. So, if you can't say anything nice (coming first hand from someone who has been hurt by the words of others) then please don't say anything at all.

Until later,

Sorry for being too honest in thoughts and feelings.

My two cents worth

"A penny for your thoughts, a quarter call, and all of your mama's love" is a line from the famous "26 Cents" song by the Wilkinsons (an awesome country family that sang and recorded together).

Well, feelin' awfully frustrated and not at all insightful, I figure that I get 2 cents worth. After all, I make the rules on this blog, right? While this is my grandmother... I didn't have a picture of me that looked somewhat insightful... sorry.
(I do have the Willis ears though... so it could be me... I guess)

While journalling some thoughts this evening, I couldn't help but bring to mind the last two weeks and how long they have truly felt (MJ, if you are reading this, the length of these weeks has had nothing to do with you or the upper (or lower) room siblings - but a long two weeks, full stop.)

It was two weeks ago today that my mom (biological - just for clarification because there are other motherly types out there, not wanting to confuse them with anyone) met me at the Cross Cancer for the first time. It was the first time they stole vials of blood from me, without so much as my permission, (I think I defaulted all decision making when I agreed to the treatment) and the first time that I passed out while getting the permanent line put into my chest. While it has been a source of bragging rights to my pals, I am going to be thrilled to see it go.

It was the first time that I heard my mom utter the words that I know have been on her heart and lips since last July, and the first time I chose to ignore what she had to say, or pretend to ignore it. And just for my own sake, let me restate the obvious here (with thanks to MJ for helping to articulate it)... this "Albert" disease was something that I had no control over or signed up for. And, most importantly, my mother was horribly mistaken in her view of God - this has NOTHING to do with what happened last July at Christ Church on the 16th, in the presence of "family" and friends, and kneeling before the Holy-Mitred One and being presented by Chocolate-addicted and Priestly-Mountainly type. Leukemia is not a form of punishment, penance, or in response to a mortal sin. If these were true, I would of had to commit a mortal sin... I assure you, I am saving those for when I am ordained in 20 years time...

Within the last week, I have had to admit (not to her, but to myself - which may be harder than you think) that Priestly-Motherly type was right. All the hair has gone. PEANUTBUTTER-SHMAKLE! Why couldn't she have been wrong? FUDGE!!!!! I hate this! Every part of it. And acknowledging that someone else was right all along... when we sat on the couch and she said, "It's all going to go Angela. It's all going to fall out" while I sobbed hysterically beside her. "No. You're wrong ---------. And whatever falls out will be glued back in. But you're wrong."

Well, if you are reading this, priestly-motherly type... accept my apology. You were right and I would have done better to have believed you then. It may have saved the endless nights since as I cry into my pillow that there is no hair to play in, to twist, to smell. Instead, it is wrapped tightly in layers of kleenex for the moment that MJ agrees to tape it, glue it, poke it, spray it, or hold it back on my head where it belongs.

It has been 10 days at the Cross with Charlie, my cabbage patch or Booker, my bear - clutched so tightly in my hand that if I forget to straighten my arm every now and again, it begins to hurt.

It has been in the last two weeks that food has gone from having absolutely no appeal whatsoever to... SWEET! It's time to eat!! And, then back to...meh!

In two weeks I have argued more with certain people about piddly little things like starting my day, drives that result in left turns rather than right, and drinks of choice (or breakfast or lunch or supper), than I am sure they have ever argued before.

Platelets, infectionette's, hand sanitizer, lysol wipes, juice until I just want to throw the cup into the air and take bets on how it will land, and Christmasy paper chains that are longer than I care to describe here and now.

Am I supposed to like this? Is this what I am supposed to be grateful for to God everyday, each morning - asking only for the grace to go through the day with my head held high? Each night, thanking God for the strength to run, not walk? HA! Over my dead donkey.

I am done. This is frustrating me more. Two days left... joy! I guess what I need to be thankful for is that I will be done for Christmas. I can celebrate the true miracle and invite him into my life once again this Christmas time without sacrificing fine motor skills for the shakes, feeling cold 24/7, or taking horse pills every six hours.

God help anyone who even THINKS about bringing this up for another round. I will have their head. I am ready to have my life back, and I am ready for it now. Forget this three month crap. Two more days. That's it. Just TWO MORE...

Booker is the biggest lil' bear closest to the lamp. In his short lil' life he has met a lot of people and been a lot of places. He has been to work and met all the staff of the Cathedral and the Synod Office, he has met my favorite prof and has even met all of those whom have been formentioned on the blog. Daily, he comes with me - clutched tightly in my arms - to the Cross.

Normally, he is quite the lil' flirt - getting "coo's" from the nurses and other patients.

However, today he decided to behave like a radical. When I was told that my day was going to start off, not with a blood test but with the injection of someone else's platelets... he just sat there.

I tried to fight it - I really, really did. Eventually, I lost the battle. My arm was taken, stabbed with the iv needle, and I just had to lay there... completely helpless as someone else dripped, drop by drop, into my fully established and perfectly fine blood stream. With each drop, a piece of my own identity was lost and a tear shed.

And what did Booker do? Sat there, smiling innocently, allowing this all to take place.

I am on the home stretch and they had to shatter that with the events of today. Do you know what I get to look forward to on Wednesday? The testing of the bone marrow!! Which, truth be told, has got to be THE WORST and most horrible feeling procedure in this whole thing. That's okay... if I will it not to happen, it won't.

Or at least, that's what elder-english-crazy-hat-lady promises...

It's all about cookies. Nothing else in the world matters.

Just kidding.

As you can see from the picture, all the hair has gone and there remains... well, nothing. There are tiny bits of my eyebrows left - if that is something to brag about.

Alison (and I suspect MJ had something to do with it) arranged an afternoon of cookie making - we made cookies without eggs... delicious shortbread and gingerbread.

As I sit here - the day after - and look at the lil' men that we decorated, I can't help but smile.

Each decorated cookie tells a story... each will tell you of how it was squished between two sheets of wax paper and mushed until it was "flat enough" with an empty wine bottle. (No, we did not consume the wine ourselves... there were youth at the event...), and then each will tell of how they were so brutally cut from the paper stencil and slowly and painfully separated from the paper once they were cut out.

Then, they will share with you the story of enduring a great heat... a huge adversity and trial period. Sure, it only lasted 5-7 minutes, but that didn't make it any more enjoyable at the time, did it? Then, if you are listening carefully, they will tell you of how they were pulled from the warm oven - a place of comfort they had now grown to love - to be smeared with sugar and water and coated with a new outer layer... the delicious candy and their life was filled with pleasant company once again.

Whatever the stories of these cookies are, however different they begin... one thing is certain: each and every cookie has a smiling face when it is done. Some with smarties, others with sprinkles.

Why? Well, because I made them that way. That's just the way that cookies are supposed to be. Will I be smiling by the time the week is done? Will I have the strength to run 5km? Will I be able to say that this has all strengthened me and I am ready for the next haul, whatever that may be?

Hmmmm....

The wonder and awe of Christmas lights...

I felt like I was 12 again... Booker in one arm and a mini hot chocolate in the other. There was snow on the ground, Christmas carols playing on the radio, and I was in the company of 'older-sister-who's-leaving-in-a-few-weeks' as we drove through the park in a state of awe and excitement at Christmas lights. It was such an experience, I am getting excited by just thinking about it.

I have spent two nights up thinking about it and re-living the excitement. There were soliders, elves, animals, candles, the Nativity, sports... there were lights and decorations for everyone, every age, every race or religion. There were moving ones and stationary ones. Some of the bulbs were no longer lighting up, but you could still tell what the decoration was and what it was doing.

The timing of the lights was so amazing. They could simulate a football player kicking a ball through for a field goal, and on the other side, the ref would raise both hands in the air to mark success. Or a squirel running through the trees, or Puff the Magic Dragon waving his tail to you... there were no limits to what these Christmas lights could do.

(Are you ready for it... here comes the geeky, nerdy, "I work in the Church" part of the blog...)

These lights, these decorations... are really not that different from us. Sometimes, for reasons unknown to us, some of our bulbs are temporarily burnt out or not shining as bright as the rest of us. That's okay. Why? Because God can still use us in other ways to further the kingdom of God here on earth, perhaps even enduring onward with burnt out lights to strengthen our message of love and forgiveness.

The decorations that move remind us that we need to trust God's timing. If we flash our lights out of order, our movements won't make any sense. If we trust God and light the bulbs he asks to light, when he asks us to light them (or the reverse, trusting that our darkness does not mean our demise)... everything will turn out beautifully. With God, how could it not?

I hit a wall this week. Questions and frustrations surfaced when I met someone who thought that my spiritual journey was one that he could join at any point. Why me? Why now? Why alone? Why do tears burn when they fall? Why this? Why here? Why weakness and fraility? Why? But really, all I need to do is trust. God will work through the lights that aren't working as well as they normally would because that is just what he does. It is God's timing that will bring me through this in a state of grace and presence, and I need to trust that.

Meanwhile, the question I need to ask myself is: What can I do to further God's kingdom - right where I am?

He will do the rest... that is what makes him AWESOME!

I can count by 2's and tie my shoes...

But don't ask me about plants!

Over the past two weeks, MJ has taught me everything from vocation to the proper use of lines like "you can't fool me, I know that you are under the covers!" that hopefully I can use on my own kids one day.

I was having my usual, "But dude... I don't want to do this, please don't make me" mornings (which I think I have every morning). We had pulled up to the doors of the Cross - I was crying and MJ was trying to reassure me that I would survive and that she would be back to pick me up or come as soon as I called the magic cell phone.

I finally started laughing and got enough courage to open the door when she reminded me to think about my chocolate-adoring friend and the show she put on for us the night before while boxing on the Wii.

So now, with thanks to MJ, my tactic for when I really want to kick the nurse - is to think of something funny.

This morning, I thought about a particular experience that I had house-sitting...

When the Holy-Purple One and Priestly-Motherly type went on the Camino in Spain for 6 weeks, the Holy-Purple One had asked me to look after the house while she was away. The instructions were simple and very clearly laid out. I was to cut the grass twice, get the mail twice a week, and water the plants. There were written instructions for each plant on how much water it would take and how much to increase the water by if it got really hot.

Two weeks into the 6, one of the plants on her table began to wilt and I, trying to remain calm, began to panic. As the days went on, the green of the plant and the pink of the flowers began to decrease greatly. I started to take desperate measures... I moved the plant onto the ledge filled with other plants - in case it grew better with friends. No luck.

I moved the plant as far away as I could from other plants incase it was possessive of its space... no luck.

I tried watering it excessively, hoping it was just famished... no such luck.

I tried leaving it go without water for a few days, but again... no luck.

I moved the plant to on top of the microwave because that was where my grandma always grew her houseplants, thinking it may have something to do with radioactive waves or something. Guess what? No luck.

I tried putting it in the sun, the shade, the bathroom, the living room... I tried talking to it - and (although slightly ashamed to admit this...) I even prayed with the plant. The Holy-Purple one is a very prayerful person... perhaps her plants grew so wonderfully because she prayed with them.

Nope.

Finally, a few days before her arrival back, I resolved to the thought that the plant was toast. I began to search the internet to find out what the plant was called so that I could replace it. I would still have to explain that I allowed it to die, but hopefully with a new one - she wouldn't really mind. No such luck though.

Scared beyond all reason, before she returned, I left a note apologizing profusely for not showing enough TLC to the plant and consequently, seeing it to its death. I assured her, in writing, that I would replace the plant for her as soon as possible and hoped that she wouldn't hold this against me or anything.

Two days later she arrived home and the day after that, came into work. While sitting with my back to her office - I missed her coming out. With a tap on the shoulder, I turn around to see none other than Holy-Purple one standing with her arms crossed. Oh no. This is it... I am going to be fired on the spot!! Why did I agree to care for her plants? Dude, not cool.

"Angela, please do not feel too badly about the plant because I can always replace them."
"Them? I killed more than one plant?"
"No... but the plant that you thought you killed was really just a pot of fresh cut flowers. And they were looking ill when I left... no wonder they didn't last!"

Fresh cut flowers! Fresh cut flowers!! Apparently I could have saved sleepless nights of worry if I would have just paid more attention in Biology class!!

Sisters make the world go 'round.

Perhaps it was because we were born and raised on a farm and so any trip into the "big city" of even just St. Albert was mind numbingly exciting. Or, perhaps it had something to do with the fact that my mother was raised with a set of younger twin brothers and she was trying to force friendships to form amongst her own kids.

Whatever the reasoning behind it was, at the age of 21 and living away from my family, I realize just how important those years were.

My mother had implemented the "buddy system" in our family. Whenever we did anything, we did it in pairs. Until I was 19, I shared a room with my next oldest sister and we were always the best of friends, but it would have been too easy for my mom to make my best friend my buddy... so I got my youngest sister Katie.

We grew to be very tight. I coached her basketball team, soccer team, and sat with her through piano and then fiddle lessons. I drove to and from sports practices and games, we did the dishes together every second night or would fool around on the trampoline if we weren't on kitchen duty. When she started competing in fiddle gigs and competitions, I took up the guitar so that I could accompany her rather than the old man that would always be there (who really couldn't keep time if you clapped it into his deaf ear). When we went camping, in the middle of the night and pouring rain when she had to go to the bathroom, it was me she would get up. Each Christmas eve, it was my bed she would crawl into at 3:30 in the morning or when she had a bad dream or just didn't feel like sleeping upstairs.

When I told her that I was moving into residence, she sat on my bed, in my lap crying until we decided to make smoothies. She helped me pack and then helped me unpack. On my new twin size bed, she was the one who insisted that I couldn't sleep the first night by myself and that she was going to be the one to stay with me... curled up on the small bed.

When I shared the news of the cancer with my parents, they thought it would be best to refrain from telling my youngest two sisters... Katie included. However, when Chantelle heard something at school, my parents finally sat down with Katie (grade 9) and my graduating high school sister to tell them what was going on.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, I am heading back to HUB to take a nap before an evening meeting.

My cell phone rings...

"Hello"
"Angela, what are you doing... right now?"
"Ummm... going into my room. What are you doing right now?"
"Like right now? You are going into your room... right now?"
"Yes Katie, can you hear my keys?" (as I shake them by the phone)
"
“Sure thing. I will call you when I am 10 minutes out.”
“Kay.”

The bus pulls into the transit station and there, getting out of my next oldest sister’s car, is Katie. Heading over to the car, I get there just in time to hear Katie say, “Thank you for the ride – I will call you when I am ready to be picked up.” Closing the car door and turning to me, with a smile and twinkle in her eye she says, “So… where are we going so that you can buy me a hot chocolate?”

Now although this is my youngest sister, she is tall. Like almost as tall as I am. Sitting drinking our hot chocolates, at the age of just 13, she is sitting in my lap. I have no idea what others in the restaurant thought, but it didn’t matter. When I finally told her that she was too heavy and had to get off, she sat down beside me – like right beside me.

With our hot drinks finished, I went to stand up and she reached into her backpack. She pulled out this small stuffed, Precious Moments lion that we bought her when she broke her arm. Her voice wavering, lip quivering, and tears in her eyes, she handed me the lion saying, “I want you to have him. Lions are brave and strong and if you are going to beat this, you will have to be to.”

I couldn’t say anything. My eyes filled with tears as we began the silent walk back, arm in arm, to the transit station.

My mother tried to create an unbreakable friendship, and she has done just that. While I have not seen her in almost a month, I get emails almost daily with jokes, pictures, or just an update of what she did that day – with subject lines like, “to make u laugh” or “luv u!”

And, on the absolutely lousy days where it takes what seems to be every ounce of strength to sit up and eat something, get out of bed and start the day, I need to remember to be strong. Those nights when I feel overwhelmed, exhausted, and frightened, crying in the pillow, I need to remember to be courageous… as tough as it may be.

Thank God for sisters.

If Only I'd Have Known...

If only I'd have known that it was to be the last time I would be held in your embrace, I'd have asked to stay just a moment more.

If only I'd have listened when my heart spoke, "I love you" I would have built up the courage to speak such simple words.

If only I could have guessed that the joke would have been the final laugh together, I'd have laughed a little longer.

If only I knew before they past that this Christmas and Easter may be our last, I'd have let go of the worries and troubles of what lay ahead, and surrendered myself to the here and now.

If only I understood that pictures would be all that was to remain, I would have taken a picture of our friendship together, each waking day.

If only I'd have realized that it was to be our last "walk and talk" I would have stopped listening to what you were saying and listen to what you weren't... to truly be there for you in what you were too scared to say a loud.

If only I'd have known, would I do it differently?

Would I have hugged a moment more, or laughed a little longer?

Would I have walked in silence or let pointless worry fall by the waistside?

No. I fear that just as the innocent child believes that Santa Claus is real, I still would have lived in shock, horror, fear, and disbelief, plagued to the grave with guilt and regret.

But if only I'd have known...

Perhaps I would have been graced by the truth that I couldn't have done it alone.

If the shower is broken... I had nothing to do with it!

The highlight that the Oilers beat the pants off the Vancouver Canucks and the celebration that my blood went semi back to normal and I was allowed to come home after the treatment this morning, was overridden by the fact that I had a shower this evening.

Now I know what you are thinking… a shower? Big whoop-tee-do… but let me set this out for you in a slightly different manner.

I think there may be a problem with the MOM’s (My Other Mother) aka MJ’s drain tomorrow morning when one of the upper room siblings goes to have a shower, but let me try and make it as clear as possible that I had absolutely no control over any possible blockage.

It was catastrophic! With each pass of my hand through my hair, the hair from my head would cling to my hand. Literally… it was an absolutely horrid experience that I hope no one ever has to go through. There was hair that lodged in my watch, hair sticking to the shower sides, and honestly, handfuls of hair in each hand… THE WHOLE TIME! And with each strand of hair that passed the quick scoop over the drain (my sad, sad attempt to salvage the hair so that we could glue it back to my head), there was a tear shed.

Just take a moment to count the hair on a small section of your head… imagine the amount of tears shed for (almost) an entire head of hair.

And so, in a protest against going bald, I hereby solemnly swear to not shower again until the remaining locks fall out on their own. I haven’t put this plan past Mother J or the rest of the lil’ chicks from the coup but hopefully they are willing to jump aboard the “Save Angela’s Hair” train before it’s too late…

Yes, I know... hair will grow back, just like the lilies of the field unfold like new each spring. BUT, I am kind of impartial to the idea of having hair, especially for the upcoming Christmas season. I have become rather fond of my hair... (a nerd? Most definately!). And, if my hair stays, I would have the pleasure of pointing out to a particular Motherly-Priestly gal that she was wrong in saying that it would all go.

Oh, and I most definitely was able to attend the Advent Lessons and Carols but it may be another day or two before I am able to put the experience into words. As my chocolate adoring crime friend could attest to, my only word to describe the nights events is: “WOW” (which was the same word that I used for TEC… which happened to be one of the most life changing experiences in the Life and Times of Me… so I think that says a lot…) I will keep you posted… with the time that I can save on having a shower, I can post!!

Can it be?

Can it be that it is only 11:30 and my eyes are shutting, ready for a sleep? Already? Can it honestly be that it is Sunday morning, but I have missed Church and youth group... for a whole 'nother week? That I have not left the bed yet and the temptation is to crawl back underneath the covers because yesterday was too much to handle? Can it be true that tomorrow endeth the chemo vacation and I start back at one... having to reach all the way to 5 again?

Nah.

Couldn't be... not me.

Or maybe it could. Wait a second. I am still in my pj's, and there is my stuffed elephant and cabbage patch and hot water bottle.

AHHH!

Apparently it can be.

This sucks. Just in case any of you were wondering or had any doubt what-so-ever...

For Such a Time as This

Now, all I have is now
To be faithful
To be holy
And to shine
Lighting up the darkness
Right now, I really have no choice
But to voice the truth to the nations
A generation looking for God

For such a time as this
I was placed upon the earth
To hear the voice of God
And do His will
Whatever it is
For such a time as this
For now and all the days He gives
I am here, I am here
And I am His
For such a time as this

You - do you ever wonder why
Seems like the grass is always greener
Under everybody else's sky
But right here, right here for this time and place
You can live a mirror of His mercy
A forgiven image of grace

Chorus

Can't change what's happened till now
But we can change what will be
By living in holiness
That the world will see Jesus

Chorus

The Juice Lady

Have you ever known an Italian mother? You know the kind that you see in the movies where they take insult when you can't possibly eat another bite of food from your plate? The kind that give you second helpings and then thirds before you can say, "STOP!"?

Apparently the volunteers who take the juice cart around... are all Italian.

"Would you like some juice dear?"
"No thank you. Not right now."
"Would you like a cookie?"
"No, really. They look wonderful but I am quite allergic to eggs and so I think I will pass on the cookies."
"How about some tea? Do you drink tea with cream or sugar?"
"No. If I were to have a cup of tea, I would prefer to take it with neither. But I won't be having a cup of tea this morning. I had some before I came. In fact, there is still some in the cup (as I hold up the insulated mug that MJ sent with me that morning)."
"Oh, that must be cold by now my dear. How about we fill it up for you again?"
"It's just fine."
"We have different kinds of ju..."
"No."
"I could check the ingred..."
"No."

The worst part is that they have their tail between their legs when they walk to the next poor person who is going to need to fight them off. Although, this morning I had to laugh. It was a particularily unfun treatment and I was having difficulty retaining anything in my stomach when the Juice Lady came 'round. The older woman who was laying on the bed next to mine, after Juice Lady left, leaned over and said, "it makes them leave faster if you threaten them with a cane. Next time, use mine!"

But, at the end of the day, thank God for the Juice Lady and the Crazy Cane Lady. The Juice Lady keeps me on my toes. In fact, I need to start plotting polite ways of saying "no" tomorrow...

In Christ Alone

http://www.gettymusic.com/lyrics.asp?id=88

It feels like a red sort of hour.

I attended the closing Eucharist at the Women's Cursillo weekend and it was more than what I was expecting. Truth be told, I went so that I could see my Bishop celebrate a Eucharistic feast (I was beside myself that it was a special feast day)... in my "home" parish in St. Albert. The RC Church that I grew up in. That aspect of the evening was amazing. I don't think I stopped smiling the whole Eucharistic prayer.

Then, You are my All in All was sung. I started tearing up. Sometimes we are just not in a place to hear the words, "Jesus, you are my All in All.... you are the strength for me when I am weak, that it is when I fall down that my Jesus picks me back up again."

However, then the song... "In Christ Alone" was sung.

The friend and support I attended the service with took my arm into hers and wouldn't let me fall. She held me up on my feet when my legs didn't have the strength to do so on their own.

Coming back to "MJ's" house, the rest of the evening was lovely... and a wonderful distraction - that was, until, "MJ" gave me a hug goodnight and I crumbled once again.

I guess the really "grace of God" thing in all of this is that it is not just in Christ alone that we find our strength to keep going, it is not in Christ alone that we can find hope and place all our fears - it is also in the presence of angels.

Angels whose work is (I believe), in the name of Christ... but truly become the hands and feet of Christ in the world. They hold your hand when you are biting your lip from crying, they lock their arm in yours and catch you from falling, they dry your tears, warm up "hugging bags", offer to pray with you, annoint you, listen to the screams, cries, fears, and worries. They even tell you that you can wake them up in any hour of the night or watch any of their 230 DVD's, or tell you goofy stories at the most crushing times.

And, on their angelic wings, they pick you up and carry you along until your feet are under you once again.

Women of Strength

A strong woman works out everyday to keep her body in shape,

But a woman of strength kneels in prayer to keep her soul in shape.

A strong woman isn't afraid of anything, but a woman of strength shows her courage in the midst of fear.

A strong woman won't let anyone or anything get the best of her, but a woman of strength gives her best to everyone and everything.

A strong woman makes mistakes and tries her hardest to avoid doing the same in the future, but a woman of strength realizes that lifes mistakes can also be God's gracious blessings and capitalizes on them.

A strong woman walks sure footedly, a woman of strength knows that God and God's angels will catch her when she falls.

A strong woman wears the look of confidence on her face; a woman of strength wears grace.

A strong woman has faith that she is strong enough for the journey,

But a woman of strength has faith that it is in the journey that she will become strong.