Unless my transplant schedule changes again, Dear Readers, this may well be the last blog entry that you will see from me until March.
Simply reading the above paragraph strikes my heart with a bolt of fear—it seems like such a long journey! I don’t want to be hooked up to pumps 24/7. I could do without the oversized johnnies and their standard chest slits.
I crave independence.
Privacy (haven’t they seen enough of me? I’m taking paper tape with me and if they’re not using it, that chest slit is getting closed up).
Comfort.
A recording of Berkley snoring will rock me to sleep—which, for someone with medical-based PTSD—is nothing short of a miracle.
This transplant will not be easy. I intend, however, to make it better than the first one. If I feel well enough, I will attend online classes through the Leonard P. Zakim Center for Integrative Therapies and Healthy Living. The Zakim Center’s programs are offered through Dana-Farber and I am excited by the prospect of potentially participating!
Did someone say Qigong?
Meditation with Live Music?
Chair Yoga Flow?
There are other physical offerings that, with the approval of my doctor and physical therapist, I’ll be able to pursue. I’ll probably be limited to gentle movements…because this body isn’t getting any younger nor are the chemotherapies any kinder…. This gentler, more mindful approach will give me the opportunity to rest, and dare I say, heal?
Relaxation and giving myself permission to rest have always been quite difficult for me. I feel an overwhelming sense of guilt whenever I nap or sit on the couch, binge watching a new television series. The guilt has also chipped away at the time I spend reading.
Somehow, Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl has released me from that feeling.
The book was suggested to me decades ago by a wonderful college professor. He has since passed away. When I first opened Frankl’s book, my immediate thought was, “I wish you were still here”. It was swiftly followed by, “why did I wait so long to get my hands on this book?”. It would have been amazing to listen to lectures about Frankl’s work and discuss it! Frankl’s book is both fascinating and heart-rending. It’s the sort of monograph that you can’t put down.
I can’t put down my own writing, although I will have to. With doctors and fellows rounding on me three times a day and vital checks every four hours, it’s impossible to accomplish much. Plus, on the transplant unit, EVERYTHING gets sanitized. I refuse to risk the longevity of my laptop and USB drives.
When I was in Middle School, I started writing my own fiction in the back of partially used notebooks. The time away from my laptop will, of course, limit my creativity, but I wrote in notebooks once, I can do it again. I have thus far packed one journal for my future goals (ideally noting reasonable steps to reach them), one journal for my experiences/thoughts regarding transplant, one large notebook for fiction as well as my daily prayer journal.
Keep praying.
Keep sending love and light.
“Jesus is Hope.”
This final statement, consisting of three light-up words, was perched atop the roof of a red-bricked building that I drove by on my way to the car dealership. Suby-Lou needed an oil change (can’t drive to Boston on old, insufficient oil!). The lighted message served as a reminder that hope, too, is as necessary in the journey forward as oil and four wheels are.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here today. I will miss you during this hiatus, but will continue sending prayers, love and light YOUR way. Take care and I will hopefully write to you again in March.
I’m not going to hide this. Waiting for a transplant date has been tremendously difficult. It’s given me too much time to think about my first bone marrow transplant—all of the parts of myself that I lost—and, yet, when the nurse coordinator called this week with dates, I felt lighter. Free. Dare I say, hopeful?
This change in perspective was made possible by various sources of positivity.
First, I had reached out to the Bone Marrow Transplant Information Network’s Caring Connection program for peer-to-peer assistance. I realized that I needed to talk to someone that’s been in this position, and seen the other side of it.
A second transplant is perhaps more frightening than the first. I remember too much of the pain. Too much of my independence being taken away. Now, however, I have a peer that’s survived two transplants. We haven’t had a chance to talk, but I’m looking forward to her guidance and the opportunity to learn how she soldiered through.
The Caring Connection staff member that spoke with me, was bright with hope and kind words. Her second birthday (the anniversary of her own transplant) was coming up. In fact, she was turning 8! Miracles. Everywhere.
My furry miracles
Her words, in regards to a transplant, were uplifting. She called it “a gift of life”. Until that conversation, I had viewed this upcoming transplant as the “gift of torture”. I didn’t want to do it again. I was crying every day, triggered by memories coming back to life. Then, this insightful individual gave me this gift.
I also started leaning on a recommended scripture, 1 Peter 5:10:
And the God of all grace, who had called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you, and make you strong, firm and steadfast.
1 Peter 5:10, the New International Version of the Holy Bible
Restore. Strong. Firm. Steadfast. These words are responsible for bolstering my hope and strength.
Thus, without further ado, I will be admitted to Brigham Women’s Hospital on January 14th and receive my new donor’s bone marrow on January 20th. I will, of course, be hospitalized longer than that—close to a month, actually.
This transplant, as hard as it will be, is the beginning of my third life. My third escape from cancer’s clutches. My third chance to build a healthy and fulfilling life.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here today. You are loved. Appreciated. I am sending prayers and light your way.
With Love & Gratitude,
Laura
Resources for the Curious:
1 Peter 5:10 was taken from the New International Version of the Holy Bible
I had an appointment in Boston on Wednesday, 9/1/2021 at 2:30 for labs and 3pm for a consult. My husband and I were both dreading what their advice might be. There we were, speaking with one of the experts on Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia and Bone Marrow Transplants (as we had in 2017), but this relapse—this third one—has felt more dire. More critical. Mere inches from Death’s drafty doorstep.
Fortunately, we also walked into that consult with full bellies and full hearts from our brief stay in New Haven, Connecticut. I’m in love with New Haven! When I was in college, Augustana’s “Boston” was one of my favorite songs. I have no legal rights to these lyrics, but they would compel me to look further than my own front door toward a very different future:
“She said I think I’ll go to Boston
I think I’ll start a new life
I think I’ll start over
Where no one knows my name….”
Thing is, my name is known in Boston now (Bone Marrow Transplant 2017 and subsequent follow-up care). I guess, if I continue to treasure these lyrics, I’ll have to make a ‘a new life’ somewhere else.
New Haven, Connecticut seems like a strong candidate. It had this relaxing, yet adventurous vibration while we were there. The ability to walk wherever we needed to go was a lovely change. As the sun disappeared, the twilight sky shifted to rose-gold. Outdoor eateries bustled with people and tall planters to both aesthetically and safely separate patrons. Several establishments required us to show our COVID Vaccine cards.
The sidewalks were also busy with restaurant music, and the sound of loud engines (namely a black Impreza) and motorcycles echoing off of brick buildings. Couples strolled around the sidewalks, too, stepping over the cement imprints of maple and oak leaves found there.
Autumn, as well as the college students, was moving into the neighborhood.
Our night-time excursion ended with a Bubble Ice Cream Cone. It was sweet and chilly—staining my hands a happy shade of turquoise-blue.
The next morning, we visited Atticus’. Doubling as a book store and a coffee shop; I was immediately delighted by the atmosphere. It was sprinkling outside, and the shop’s windows were fogged up with moisture, but added a degree of mystery, enchantment to the colorful shop. We sat near the fiction section, which is where I devoured the perfectly chia pudding. I tried to re-plicate the recipe at home…I have some more experimentation to do….
While my husband finished his breakfast, I took a peek at the books. I didn’t recognize many of them; a clear indication that I need to find my way back to the literary world.
Upon closer inspection, however, I realized that I already owned several of the tomes. I had marked some of them as donations to a local, used bookstore. Some of the books, however, were still on my shelves. Should I keep them? I mean, after all, they were good enough for Yale’s students to read. Maybe I should give these books that, after ten years or so of waiting, another chance?
It only took a couple of hours to make it to Dana-Faber Cancer Institute (DFCI). Although I had been outfitted with a PICC-line in my left arm, DFCI didn’t have the correct documentation to use it. SEVEN vials of blood were drawn from my last good vein, “Old Faithful”. I was so proud of this seemingly little accomplishment.
During the consult, a tentative plan was laid out before us. I would receive up to 6 more cycles of Immunotherapy in Vermont. Eventually, my original donor (the most wonderful woman in the world) will add her Lymphocytes to this consolidative/preventive approach. It’s graded; every 6 weeks or so I will need to go to Boston for Donor Lymphocyte Infusion.
To have a plan is beautiful. It’s progress. It’s also excruciating waiting for it to be enacted.
What do you do in such circumstance? You do as the card at the beginning of this post instructs, “surround yourself with all happy things”.
We spent that night at Westin, a modern hotel fitted with two escalators and its own bar. The dining room hosted an incredible breakfast. I choose to feast on the Challah French toast (mostly because it was something that would be difficult to find where we live).
We drove to north Boston, where we walked a bit of the Freedom Trail, stopping to admire the Old North Church and Paul Revere’s Monument:
The Old North ChurchUnsure of what kind of flower this is, but it was in the same courtyard as Paul Revere’s Monument“The British are coming!”
We visited Little Italy, purchasing cannoli from pastry rivals, Mike’s and then from Modern Pastry.
Our next stop on our return home was Ocean House Hotel at Bass Rocks. Still located in Massachusetts, we strolled along a sandy beach. I should have gathered some of the pearlescent, purple and white seashells.
I believe, however, that the happy memories that we created are more priceless…and needed for cloudy days than seashells, which, once collected, are destined for dust on a shelf.
We had our own 2nd floor balcony and an incomparable view of the ocean at Ocean House.
Due to the hurricane off-shore, giant white-capped waves hit the rocks continuously. There was a paved path the along road and we walked down it a couple times to see what there was to see. Rose of Sharon, in both fuchsia and white, filled in the cracks between the great stones. Little birds perched in the tall grasses and sumac.
There is the sea, vast and spacious, teeming with creatures beyond number—living things both large and small.
Psalm 105: 25 (NIV)
With a pinch of bravery and stupidity, we climbed out on stones to get better views of the ocean. What an adventure! Seagulls, of the white and fledgling-brown variety were our constant companions, appearing out of nowhere, or so it seemed.
We went to breakfast at a charming greasy spoon diner. Dark roast coffee, after a few mornings of hotel room medium blends, was delightful! I was so enchanted by the coffee, that I can’t recall what I ate for breakfast….
Whale-watching commenced at 8:30am. As instructed by the crew, we could see the whales’ green fins rising in the waters.
Boston on the horizon…
Whenever one of the great mammals surfaced, it was breathtaking and an opportunity to take note of their unique under-the-tail markings. These white and black patterns help conservationists and researchers identify our larger brethren from each other.
Our final stop was BAM (Books-A-Million). I’ve had my eye on BAM since 2017 when I was receiving my Bone Marrow Transplant in Boston but couldn’t go adventuring. Everything I’d hoped to see was there! I took note of the trends, drooled over the hard covers and noted how cute the pocket books were. And the mugs! I have an addiction to coffee mugs. It’s almost as strong as my addiction to caffeine itself.
I know I’ve written about cardinals in the past, but maybe not the two females I observed this morning. Amid the ruin of the Pool Hole, these two gracefully attired ladies gathered their breakfasts. Their muted scarlet frocks accentuated the bouquet of dark purple thistle that has taken root there.
It may seem pointless to gather glimpses of birds and newly cut fields at twilight, but then, there are these days that require me to summon strength:
Post-Port Procedure. Thank God for my non-biological sister who took me to the appointment.
Now, there has been some puppy-dreaming going on between these four walls. I’m not in a position to take on the challenge of a puppy, but I long for the opportunity to scoop someone up and shower him or her with pets. I long to be someone’s favorite again.
We have two beautiful pups that could never be replaced:
I miss my Alderaan, though. I miss him forcing me to share computer chairs and yoga mats. If I knew when I could take him back, I would create a countdown on a calendar.
After living with two other felines since June, I’d also look for a big, fat companion for him. Or a kitten…time will tell if he gets a younger or older sister.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here today…for your continued kind thoughts and prayers. You, too, strengthen me on the tough days. Until the next time I post, take good care and know that you are loved.
With Gratitude and Love,
Laura
Resources for the Curious:
The card pictured in this entry is from Hallmark: good mail card. It sparkles, featuring artwork by Marenthe Otten, Courtesy of Little Rogers Studio. Studio INK was also involved in its production.
Augustana, the band, to the best of my knowledge, dissolved in 2011.
Psalm 105:25 was extracted from the New International Version of the Bible.
Watching Bob’s Burgers like they’re sitting in a movie theater…
I’ve had a real hankering for Kodiak’s Instant Oatmeal cups. I could simply place a couple of them in my next Hannaford-to-Go order, or throw some in my cart whenever I’m able to stop by the grocery store when it opens. I prefer to shop in empty stores; I’m trying to stay healthy, which means staying away from anyone that might be carrying a virus or be infected with something equally contagious.
Times like these, call for creativity.
I microwaved some instant oatmeal in one of my bowl-sized cups:
A tablespoon of peanut butter was added and then thoroughly mixed.
Next, came a small packet of milk chocolate M&M’s. Stir it altogether and you get something similar to Kodiak’s oatmeal…but not nearly as tasty.
I’ll eat it though; it’s one of the food items that doesn’t upset my fussy stomach.
Creativity is helping me in so many other ways, too. I’m having some difficultly discovering immersive television shows, but hand me a paint brush and there’s suddenly joy in my veins.
It replaces the fear of both the known and the unknown.
These guys make me smile – they look like they’re singing “Joy to the World”.
Another source of encouragement came in the form of a book from a reader (and friend)! The reader generously sent me a copy of, Every Day Spirit: A Daybook of Wisdom, Joy and Peace, by Mary Davis. Within these inspiring pages is a prescription for “Gratitude in Advance”.
What is “Gratitude in Advance”? Simplified, it involves keeping a list of future items to be grateful for, such as accomplishments. The process begins by writing the list in a journal or notebook and, then, on the following day, rewriting the same list on the next blank page. These hopes and dreams will eventually manifest and can be knocked off of the list. Be ready to replace them with something even better!
Although I do keep a gratitude journal, there are days when finding something to be grateful for is quite difficult, especially when I’m overtired or in pain. THIS, “Gratitude in Advance” THOUGH—is IMAGINATIVE. It gives me the opportunity to dream about a future. An excellent, HAPPY future.
Confession: I stole the book’s first “Gratitude in Advance” item. I mean, who doesn’t want to be able to say, “Thank you for the blessings of this day! I am in radiant health”.
So, yeah. It’s shameful, but thievery occurred.
I have at least fifteen future gratitude statements in my new journal. Two months ago, I didn’t know whether or not I was going to survive this relapse. I still don’t know the answer to that question, but I have plans. Future accomplishments to be excited about, for instance: “I am a published fiction author”.
Will I get to knock that item off of my “Gratitude in Advance” list? Someday. Hopefully.
At the moment, Dear Readers, I need to write about Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). It has worsened over the last few weeks. It now includes walking into Interventional Radiology (IR), which is where I must go for Lumbar Punctures.
Little known fact: my spine is slightly curved. The specialized equipment housed in IR helps circumvent this issue. It avoids the repeat of this memory that I found in a journal from my treatment in 2011:
“At some point [my doctor] said, ‘Did you feel that? I just popped through a tendon.’ My Back had terrible bruises on it.”
PTSD is something that I live with on a daily basis—not just in dusty journals or on USB drives that I’m attempting to transcribe into my memoirs. In fact, the most recent episode occurred on Tuesday, August 25, 2021 in one of the Cancer Center’s bathrooms.
I started crying, unable to stop myself from thinking about the afternoon’s Lumbar Puncture and how I didn’t have the strength to do it. I was afraid. I knew that it didn’t matter how skilled the specialist was, it was going to be painful.
It’s true that having lumbar punctures twice a week, and now once a week, saved me from having another Ommaya Reservoir placed:
However, I overestimated my own pain tolerance, my steel. I can’t do this anymore, not without help. Alligator tears drenched my mask. Sobs had to be stifled. It was the kind of sob that had the potential to crescendo into a scream.
For me, this is a classic PTSD episode. Dissimilarly, my past panic attacks involved extreme chest pain as if I was having a heart attack, difficulty breathing and talking, numbness in at least one arm.
PTSD, other than the tears, is more cerebral for me.
How did I get out of that bathroom? By the Grace of God.
After washing my hands, I decided that I needed to talk to someone. A Medical Assistant saw my tear-soaked mask and asked me how she could help. I requested to speak with my transplant nurse, my lead hematologist-oncologist as well as my neuro-oncologist. I gave all three names, in hopes of alerting one of them to this episode.
My lead hematologist-oncologist came to sit by me in my infusion chair. We talked about PTSD, about the pain that I was dreading, how he might help in this situation. Thus far, the plan includes light sedation. He’ll be notifying Dana-Farber about it. He has several colleagues more versed in mental health issues and will pursue their advice—all so I am more comfortable with this treatment plan.
That afternoon, my mental health was more important than the Lumbar Puncture, and so it was skipped.
Skipping punctures does, unfortunately, come with consequences. It is an opportunity for the ALL to grow in my head and spine.
It’s a gamble I had to take.
Enough pain and tears. Let’s focus on being an advocate for my own mental health. Those of you who know me in real-life know that I rarely, if ever, stand up for myself. Let’s ponder the positive reaction to my confession. I’m not crazy. I’m not broken. I simply carry invisible scars.
As previously mentioned, I have been attempting to write my memoirs. I’m using old journals for Cancer Experience No. 1, blog posts for Cancer Experience No. 2, and I haven’t had the time nor the energy to contemplate how to share this third relapse. I have some notes…which are mostly descriptions that I’ve scribbled down of anything other than treatment. Cardinals, flowers, our pups.
I am especially enchanted by these Abyssinian Gladiolus (Acidanthera):
Due to my immune system, I haven’t been able to garden as I would like. Affectionately dubbed my ‘fake gladiolas’ due to erroneous packaging, I must say that I am delighted that these flowers have survived—and thrived.
I found that writing my memoirs—potentially sharing all of that pain—can only be accomplished in short spurts. I transcribe for a little while and then I need to unwind. Sometimes I relax with a cup of tea and Diamond Dotz. Other times it’s coloring (I recently ‘discovered’ the Gond Style of Painting on Pinterest). Occasionally, my escape is blasting music in the living room.
A few years ago—okay—it was the last weekend in 2016—I participated in a yoga workshop that culminated in a collage of magazine clippings glued to a canvas board. These clippings were meant to capture our goals and gratitude for the coming new year.
I relapsed with ALL in 2017. It manifested as a tumor in my Lumbar Spine. It’s another reason why my present Lumbar Punctures hurt so badly.
Still, the collage was powerful. Many of the magazine clippings that I chose for my canvas on that last day in 2016, involved pictures and words of protection, gratitude and blessings. The blessing I received that year? A bone marrow graft from one of the kindest women I know. She gave me almost four years of remission.
I may include some magazine clippings in my new journal. It’s a great way to visualize a bright future filled with love, health and laughter.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here today. It means so very much to me. Sending prayers, hope and light your way.
It requires more than a smidge of courage for me to wear brightly colored clothes—especially now—when all that I really want to do is hide from everyone. I don’t like what I see reflected in the mirror…and it takes reciting Psalm 139 at least three times to release myself from my negative thoughts.
Why?
Because this, Dear Readers, the changes that I am going through are hard. Reminding myself that “…I am fearfully and wonderfully made” is salve to a blistering burn.
No, not all of my clothes are currently fitting and I’m certainly not sporting the guns (or pipes, if you prefer) that I had in college, but this body, THIS body, has been through 2 cancer treatments and is in the midst of a third one.
I may feel hideous, and weak, but I have been blessed with a body that’s capable of enduring a whole host of poisons and pain. Thus, it is with some degree of gratitude that I wore this shirt on Thursday morning:
Rosie the Riveter
Yes, I will persist.
Yes, I will count every blessing that I can.
It’s the small things that get me through each day.
For instance, observing the Mama Robin on our front porch fills me with joy. She meticulously delivers food to her hatchlings, braving both the sun and the rain to make sure that her babies are well-nourished. She is, by far, the best bird mama that I’ve ever witnessed.
My raised garden bed is overgrown with California Golden Poppies, blue perennials that I’ve forgotten the name of, and some rather attractive “weeds”. It doesn’t stop the mourning doves from sweeping through the wilderness and creating paths between the gone-to-seed lettuce and kale. Their sad tune enchants me, their diligence makes me feel whole, as they tend to the garden that I’m not allowed to touch.
A quick peek out of our side window, fills me with wonder! Our neighbors have such a beautiful patio, framed by lilies of every color and size. Did you know that they invited me to visit whenever I want to? To sit in the sun and read a book? I don’t have that kind of courage, but gosh, they’re generous people!
I am grateful, too, for the man that I married. Even when we don’t see eye-to-eye (which is impossible since he has a foot and an inch on me), I do appreciate all that he does. Working odd-ball shifts—all so he can provide for our household and take me to my Lumbar Puncture appointments—is an act of love. We’re not perfect people. We’re not living in the perfect scenario right now, but we’re trying to figure this out together.
His smile, whenever he sees me, warms my heart.
There are countless other friends and family members—as well as individuals I don’t know—that I am grateful for. They fill my cup with positive comments and kindness. A sentence on social media or a short message with nothing but hearts in it, may not seem like a lot, but to me, it’s a reminder that I can do this again.
That you’re here with me.
That it’s going to be okay.
Writing a blogpost was not on my “to-do” list for the day. Yet, here we are, in the middle of a blog entry.
Please remember to announce your gratitude as if you’re speaking over an intercom system.
Wear bold colors.
Count your blessings, because even when you feel like you’re drowning, they are many.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here today. Thank you for your prayers, your love and your light. They are the fuel making my “persistence” possible.
I would love to cut through the radio silence with an inspirational, detailed, blog entry. For various reasons, I don’t have that kind of entry in me today. Instead, I want to share a scene that brings me joy.
Tux, who may have been mentioned over a year ago, has reappeared!
The first sighting occurred at around 3am last Thursday. My husband noticed our cat, Alderann, staring at the back door. A paw hit the glass.
My husband took a closer look; there, staring as intently as our boy was, crouched a large, black and white cat. Tux!
As Tux had been unobserved for some time, I had worried that the majestic-looking feline had met the same fate as Sneaky Pete. Pete, as you may or may not recall, met an untimely end in the road….
Tux, however, was here! Alive!
When the pups became aware of the cat on the porch, they barked, scaring Tux away. I didn’t get to see him on Thursday. I was, of course, disappointed, but surprisingly calm about the ‘missed connection’. Tux was alive, and that’s all that really mattered to me.
Patience is a virtue—one I don’t have—but it does seem to be handsomely rewarded.
Friday morning was a rough one for me. Every negative emotion, every ache, every frustration I felt toward my body, was suddenly and surprisingly replaced by a surge of joy. Visible from the kitchen window, I had the opportunity to view the fabled Tux.
He had found a comfortable spot beside the pool hole, cedars framing his ears. Tux’s black fur glistened in the early morning sunlight. Verdant Iris and Hosta shoots surrounded him. He was a welcome sight. Breathtaking. Demanding attention, awe.
To some, this might sound like an overreaction to a cat. I can understand that viewpoint. To be honest, it’s the gift of sight and the beauty inherent in nature that gets me through most days. I thank God for allowing me to see sunrises, distant mountains on my drive to work, and yes, for allowing me to catch a glimpse of a wandering tom cat.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for visiting today. Thank you, too, for your patience between blog entries. I guess, maybe, you can liken me to a wandering feline. You may not see new posts from me on a regular basis, but rest assured, I will make a reappearance.
Luna and Berkley are snoring—a comforting melody for this writer. Why? Because I’m not sure how this entry is going to work out. There have been so many moments this summer that have been absolute treasures…but to share them all in one blog post…is going to require faith, patience, and self-compassion. Writing THIS will be a challenge.
Fasten your seat-belts. This might get bumpy.
It’s probably best to start indoors—in the office, actually, where Alderaan spends the afternoons sleeping in my desk chair. There’s a towel covering that seat now; he has sharp claws capable of puncturing faux-leather and he sheds like it’s going out of style. Despite the punctures and the hair, this little guy holds my heart in his paw.
Earlier in the season, he went to the veterinarian’s office for an annual check-up and his distemper shot. I had suspected that Aldie might be experiencing dental issues. He was leaving pieces of hard food, outside of his dish. They were half-chewed, half-moons. As my writing companion, he had no problem weaving around my laptop, but he did so with atrocious-smelling breath (no offense buddy).
My suspicions were confirmed after his check-up, when the vet said that Alderaan was in great health, except for having “severe” dental decay. As someone that had to have a dental evaluation prior to bone marrow transplant (because bad teeth can be a gateway for infection), I knew that I had to schedule this procedure for my beloved Aldie.
The result? He’s a kitten again!
He’s been playing with his toys, dragging them around. Alderaan has been more vocal—especially when he thinks dinner should be served. He is a gray streak racing alongside the second floor’s banisters.
He even raised a paw at Luna when she got in his face one morning (something he has never done before).
Although he has transformed into a spitfire, Alderaan still makes time for his more sedentary, favorite activities, like sitting in the kitchen window while I wash the dishes.
He spotted something interesting….
Luna and Berkley, too, are experiencing a renaissance of sorts.
Perhaps their new-found energy has its roots in their puppy play dates with Finnegan (read “Berkley Turns Three”, dated 7/27/2020, to meet our friend, Finnegan), but this 2 and 3-year-old are experiencing the zoomies again! Every night, around 5pm, they start racing around the house, playing rough and showing off their rather impressive canine teeth.
The zoomies are exhausting!
It’s all fun and games to them; to me, witnessing this vivacity is inspiring, and hopeful—maybe, someday, I’ll get some of my pre-transplant energy back?
I find inspiration in other places as well—specifically the great outdoors.
Prior to this year’s garden, I had the thumb of impending plant death. It has been both a surprise and a gift to actually grow vegetables and flowers!
As a child, I picked flowers. As an adult, I like to take pictures of them. I hope I never set this joy aside.
The Outdoor Art Club also gives me joy. Earlier in August, we visited St. Patrick’s Oratory and Mother Cabrini’s Shrine in Peru, NY.
I got lost on the way there, of course, but getting lost is half the adventure!
The oratory’s grounds were verdant—offering everything from fruit trees to yes, more flowers:
It wasn’t just the flowers that caught my attention. There was a walking trail through the woods, encouraging contemplation via a variety of spiritual icons:
The shrine, open to the outdoor air, was the perfect blend of nature and sanctuary.
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To the left of Mother Cabrini’s shrine was a small, well-maintained field with the stations of the cross.
To the right of Mother Cabrini’s shrine, and sprawling behind the oratory, was a cemetery. Little known fact (or maybe it’s known) about me, is that I LOVE cemeteries. Funerary art is fascinating! The gravity and sanctity of a cemetery plot reminds me of just how fleeting life is and how very important it is to love and to live while we’re here.
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Love, it seems, is the key to everything. How we act. How we speak. How we spend our time. Alderaan wasn’t in the kitchen window when I observed a robin feeding a youngster. I thought this scene was a bit odd, since this ‘youngster’ had functional wings, two legs and a beak that could clearly open. Its feathers were still marked with white spots, though, and this—this vulnerability reminded me of a passage I recently read in Deuteronomy 32:10-11.
In a desert land he found him,
in a barren and howling waste.
He shielded him and cared for him;
he guarded him as the apple of his eye,
like an eagle that stirs up its nest
and hovers over its young,
that spreads its wings to catch them
And carries them aloft.
– As written in the New International Version of the Holy Bible
This is God’s great love…and, yet, I can see it reflected in that mother robin’s dark eyes, too.
The summer seems to be passing us by. Crickets are chirping all day and all night now. There are red leaves on the lawn and in the little trees surrounding our porch.
There is a sadness in this. I try to remind myself that, as the garden starts to wilt, “everything has its season”. This is natural. This is life.
I deadhead my flowers, now, and tuck them away in the office to air-dry.
Later, when September arrives, I will savor a mug of hot apple cider and plan next summer’s garden.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here today. I hope the transition of seasons gives you time to reflect, smile with joy, and build future plans. Sending prayers, love and light your way.
We left home in the early afternoon, when the sun was high in the sky, and a touch too warm for a leather jacket and jeans. It was an adventure, though, and any degree of discomfort was worth enduring.
The motorcycle purred as we chose to take the back roads to Lake Placid instead of the usual route via the interstate.
The back roads—some damaged by winters’ frost heaves—were bumpy, curvy and framed by a beautiful array of wild flowers. Queen Anne’s Lace, Thistle and Black-eyed Susan’s were just a few of the fragrant blooms on display.
There were stands of elegant white birch, moss and ferns growing up alongside their trunks.
Passing through one sleepy hamlet, I noticed that many of the driveways had a chair positioned at the end of them. The chairs—an assortment of plastic, wooden, wicker—seemed to be in decent shape; no broken legs or frayed cushions. They clearly weren’t set by the roadside for garbage pickup and disposal. Neither did they serve a decorative purpose as none of them were festooned with containers of summer flowers.
It was a curious pattern…one that I still wonder about…and may or may not use in a piece of fiction someday!
In busier locales, the sidewalks teamed with young families and roaming teenagers. Swimmers and beach towels dotted winding river banks.
We came to an abrupt stop for two, white geese, waddling across the road.
As we drove deeper into the Adirondack Park, we were enveloped by the fresh scent of pine trees.
Arriving in Lake Placid, we parked in the lot directly across from our destination: Emma’s Lake Placed Creamery. The line of prospective patrons flowed out of the parlor’s door and out onto the sidewalk. Hungry and overheated, we decided to have a late lunch. We found the perfect place to eat—Generations Tap & Grill—a ‘hop-skip-and-a-jump’ away from the creamery.
Once seated on the restaurant’s spacious porch, we ordered the “Firetower”—a handmade Bavarian pretzel of epic proportions (accompanied by two dipping sauces) as well as a club sandwich that was so generous that we had to share it. Coupled with an IPA for the hubby and a cider for myself, our late lunch gave us all the sustenance that we needed to continue exploring the home of the 1980 Winter Olympics.
Our first stop was the Alpine Mall. I instantly fell in love with the shop, ‘Vision of Tibet’! Lured in by a rack of silk and cotton dresses, I soon found myself immersed in the beauty and rich culture of the Himalayas. There was jewelry and additional clothing items, but the items that spoke to us the most were the handcrafted singing bowls and the prayer flags strung from the boutique’s opposite walls and augmenting the ceiling. A tapestry, with an embroidered quote from the Dali Lama, caught our attention as well. It described the purpose of life—a good life—and it rang true.
Leaving the Alpine Mall, we took a sharp right and tacked ourselves onto the end of Emma’s line. Once again, the queue stretched from the creamery’s threshold to the sidewalk. The sun was shining brightly still, heating the cement underneath our feet, and making the promise of cold ice cream all the more irresistible.
Except, that, by the time we reached the door, the number of tasty (and creative options) were almost overwhelming! Hard ice cream, soft serve, milkshakes, Sundaes, Bubble tea, gelato, ice cream cake, edible cookie dough, cookie sandwiches, smoothies—and, then, the Crazy Shakes.
Knowing that it could be years before I made my way back to Lake Placid, I decided to take a leap of faith and let my sweet tooth make this difficult decision.
I chose the Cookies &Cream Crazy Shake—and it was crazy delicious!
The shake itself, an incredible blend of vanilla ice cream and Oreo cookies, would have been enough to fulfill my sugar cravings. But the shake’s creators hadn’t stopped there. Oh, no—not only were there actual cookie chunks in the shake—it was topped off with a tower of Oreo cookie sandwiches (with vanilla ice cream centers rolled in rainbow sprinkles!).
It was a work of art that elicited so many smiles:
Crossing the street, to the parking lot where the motorcycle was, we sat down beside the lot’s sign and began to feast on our own chilly treats.
“Where’d you get that?” A passerby asked me. “I think I need one.”
I was amused by how one, sugary, flawlessly constructed shake could draw out such joy—not only my own, but that of all those who glimpsed it.
The drawback of this masterpiece? I’m a messy eater to begin with, and, in the afternoon heat, my shake melted too quickly. I had grabbed a handful of napkins while in the creamery, but I wasn’t prepared for this:
I was so covered in cookie crumbs, that I needed help putting my mask back on—all so I could dive back into Emma’s for more napkins. Such a feat should have been complicated by the line of customers, but my cookie-covered hands seemed to grant me easy (and quick) passage.
To say I was ‘full’ after devouring the shake would be a lie. I was beyond full—full of ice cream, happiness, joy. Climbing back onto the motorcycle was no simple task in such a state, but a little girl, standing beside her father saying, “I want to watch the motorcycle”, somehow bolstered my resolve.
Girls can ride motorcycles, too.
We ended our trip at Donnelly’s Ice Cream in Saranac Lake. Donnelly’s is a well-known favorite for those of us who are native to the North Country. The little shop makes one flavor of ice cream a day. Once the stand sells out, that’s that. Shop closed. Fortunately, we made it before the ice cream was gone!
An arranged meeting, we joined a good friend in Donnelly’s parking lot. After we each enjoyed an extremely thick, creamy strawberry-vanilla twist, we took the back roads home.
Photo taken by our friend, Gordon, on a back road in Onchiota, NY
Thank you, Dear Readers, once again for continuing this journey with me. I do hope, that the next time that you go adventuring, you choose to take the less known roads. Sending prayers, love and light your way.
With Love & Gratitude,
Laura
Resources for the Curious:
To learn more about Donnelly’s Ice Cream, visit them on Facebook.
Vision of Tibet can also be found on Facebook, specifically @LPVisionoftibet
A mostly quiet love-bug (except for when there’s a bunny in the backyard or when his daddy comes home from work), Berkley turned three-years-old this past week! This handsome gentleman from Texas never ceases to amaze us; he is super-fast, happy, and loves to eat. We have been so blessed by Berkley’s presence and are eternally grateful that a dear friend saw his description online and shared it with us. In fact, Berkley’s Got-cha Day is today (July 27th)!
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Berkley’s calm demeanor balances Luna’s high-energy and has even helped to dial it down by several degrees.
Thanks to Berk, she has also embraced couch cuddling—but only if it’s her idea. Luna is an independent thinker, a feline-like quality that she may have picked up from her big-little brother, Alderaan.
As the cat of the house—and king of the upstairs—Alderaan had the choice as to whether or not he would participate in Berkley’s birthday celebrations. The celebration, in actuality, began a day early when Berkley and Luna’s new friend, Finnigan, came to visit.
Finnigan’s mom, an awesome nurse and friend, was helping strip the old shingles off of our roof and asked if I could watch her 5-month-old Labradoodle while she was up there. I said yes! I mean, who could say ‘no’ to this guy:
He’s so cute and soft! And, although he is as tall as Luna, he’s convinced that he’s a lap dog.
Worried that Finn’s affinity for cuddling would interfere with my ability to complete my husband’s birthday presents (Hubby and Berk share the same birthday), I moved my operation to the kitchen, where I set up shop on top of the keezer. Finnigan happily joined me there, settling on my feet as extra motivation to keep painting.
With Finn’s help, I finally finished these:
With the salt-dough paw prints and my husband’s birthday card completed, I was ready for the double birthday. I could go to sleep without a nagging voice telling me that I had more to do to make the next day a good day.
Yes, I was ready for the double birthday—Berkley, however, was not:
I think Berk’s reaction to being told that he was a year older, is one that we can all recognize/sympathize with. Although growing older is a privilege, how many of us actually do so with acceptance and grace? I know I haven’t.
Berkley’s shock wore off later in the afternoon when Finn’s mom brought over a delicious raspberry, buttercream-frosted cake. Neither of our pups sampled the cake, but they were excited by the smell of it.
Berkley spent the day receiving extra pets and hugs. For dinner, he was even given a larger spoonful of soft food atop his kibble! By the day’s end, he seemed content be a three-year-old.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for joining me here today. I hope you are finding reasons to celebrate (safely). If you have a pup or a cat of your own, give them some extra cuddles today. It’s beneficial for both of you. Sending prayers, love and light your way.
On Tuesday (7/7/2020) of this past week, I posted this on Facebook:
On this day, ten years ago, I was told (for the first time) that I had cancer. Unlike my previous cancerversaries, this one has been exceptionally emotional. I feel as though I have been on a rollercoaster ride all day – I have felt gratitude for this life, for outliving my original expiration date, but also, a tremendous amount of grief, survivor’s guilt, and fear. There’s simply too much in my head and in my heart to describe here.
10 years.
So, I will quote Desiderata, as I do every July 7th:
“Be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe.
No less than the trees and the stars;
You have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
No doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.”
Thank you, so much, for all of the prayers, love and light that you have given to me throughout this past decade. There are no words for just how much I appreciate all of you.
My head and my heart really were spinning. In the past, I had celebrated my cancerversaries with cake (preferably cakes with rainbow sprinkles on top of them). This one, I didn’t. I didn’t have the heart to celebrate…which I still can’t explain, even to myself.
Last Wednesday, July 8th, 2020, I was more at peace with it all. The rollercoaster ride had ended and I was settled. Grounded in the present moment. This, too, mirrored how I felt ten years ago; on 7/8/2010, I was at peace. Complete and utter peace with my diagnosis. I firmly believed that whatever happened to me, was God’s will. It was His plan.
I know now, that that’s called, “shock”.
Despite the description of how I felt as being, “shock”, I prefer to think of it as peace, as comfort, and as assurance of His presence. I’m going to be stubborn about this one; say “shock” and I’m going to say “serenity”.
My Facebook post was met with a tremendous wave of love and good wishes. It was humbling and comforting. I couldn’t ask for better family and friends. The support was exactly what I needed to recover from a day spent sobbing (on both sides of the shower curtain). I also received some lovely, invaluable advice—which I plan to utilize.
One Facebook friend described her coping mechanism as doing what she loves, as much as she can.
What do I love to do?
Write. Read. Spend time with these furry babies:
Spending time in the garden is another hobby that brings me joy.
Flower on the green bean plant!
The perennial flower mix that I planted
It’s a miracle that most of everything is still alive (let’s not talk about the pepper plants that my dad gave me or the Bachelor Buttons that I tried to transplant). It has been a privilege to watch my pea plants flower and produce pods.
And, then, there’s this curiosity:
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I’ve never witnessed an onion going to seed before! There’s something beautiful about it.
Another element of life that I thoroughly enjoy is being artsy. My latest project involved capturing our fur babies’ paw prints in salt dough.
I’m not quite finished with this project; they need another coat of white paint and some detailing in either blue or black.
It’s a small thing, but it is a keepsake that I am sure we will treasure for the rest of our lives.
Echoing the above sentiment, is the gift box that my mom gave me (along with the gift inside of it) for my most recent birthday. The top of the box reads, “Enjoy the little things…for one day you will look back and realize they were the big things”. I don’t know who to attribute this quote to, but I feel as though it is of the utmost importance to embrace.
This “little thing” was stretching up alongside the raised bed garden, probably sniffing at the lettuce, kale and carrots. She’s still too small to hop up into it (which, of course, is a good thing).
Although I suspect that Tiny (pictured above – can you see her white tail?) is the one responsible for the destruction of the Johnny Jumps, I can’t help but feel blessed every time I see her.
Perhaps celebration wasn’t something that I could do on July 7th, but today, I feel ready to count all of the remarkable blessings that I have been given.
En (one) – renewed faith
To (two) – my husband, our fur babies, as well as my family, both biological and married into
Tre (three) – the friends that I have made along the way
Fire (four) – the gift of continued learning (including Norwegian and the classes that I will be taking to become a professional medical coder)
Fem (five) – the gift of the five senses, so that I can see, hear, smell, taste, touch all of the God-given wonders of this life
Seks (six) – simply being alive!
Sju (seven) – my readers, who encourage me to keep writing, even when it’s difficult.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here today. You are a treasure to me. I am sending prayers, love and light your way.
With Love & Gratitude,
Laura
Resources for the Curious
“Desiderata” is, in actuality, much longer than the segment that I shared on Facebook. It’s an inspiring poem by Max Ehrmann and is absolutely worth Googling!
Of Pieridae & Perras 
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