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