Barking Backwards

Mr. MacDonald seemed so old when I was a young fourteen just starting high school. But as I reflect back, I realize that he was probably the age I am now. He taught my freshman English class and he loved poetry.   The first poem we studied was:

“The old dog barked backwards without getting up, I can remember when he was a pup.

He spent so much time on that little poem.  I think it was two solid lesson days spent on dissecting it and discussing its hidden meanings.   It made such an impact that of the many fascinating things I learned in my high school years this little poem remains in my memory.

I’ve been feeling a bit like that old dog lately.   I’ve spent much time this summer healing my injuries from the car accident and healing requires stillness.  The longer the healing process took, the more I realized that the stillness has been good for my healing heart as well.   

Perhaps all the times this past year or so when God told me ‘no’ when I signed up for some activity it was with good reason.  The number of times plans just didn’t work out for various reasons cannot be coincidental.   And the fun outings I did have were all the more special – with family and friends and each memorable in its own way.    I suspect that God knew I needed some stillness in my life to help my healing heart. 

I remember when I saw my oncologist a few months after Robert passed away.   She said it had been obvious to her how deeply we loved each other.  I shared with her that another acquaintance had mentioned how much she admired the care  and kindness with which we treated each other.   My doctor smiled sadly and said that the one problem with finding your soul mate is how much it hurts to lose them.   

If I had known this simple fact of loss earlier in life, would it have deterred me from finding my soul mate?  I think not.   I’ve always felt that living life with an open heart is so much more pleasant than a closed one.  Sure – you feel pain that others do not- but your joy is great.

My doctor’s comments helped me to understand that the depth of the unspeakable pain I was enduring was a reflection of the love we had shared.   I know that my heart is still healing.  My wonderful cousin pointed that out to me last year and it holds true today.   Healing takes more time than you expect.  And stillness.   Restful, quiet times set amongst the busier moments.   I may be barking backwards just a bit longer.  Although, I am starting to remember being a pup.  

That Abyss

The vastness of it overwhelms.   You try not to approach the edge of the yawning chasm.  It’s darkness makes you feel cold and you shiver.   The unseen bottom and opposite sides gives you pause.   Best not to think of it – that abyss of your future years without your love.  An unplanned future spent on your own.  If dwelled upon it could prove terrifying in its enormity.

In the early days, I would wonder at how I could fill the years ahead of me.   I learned it was best to just focus on each day.  It works most of the time.   It really does.  But there are those occasions when that abyss looms large in the mind.  Sometimes at random moments when least expected.  Sometimes when you are marking a special occasion or other memory pivot point.  A day or week when you remember what once was.   Not that you ever really forget it.  It’s just become easier to be distracted from the pain on more days the further you are out from your loss. 

I think of my future path from a Christian perspective.   And it helps to put my trust in God as I plan each day.   But yet- there are those unexpected moments.  Moments when the abyss startles me with its presence.  I say a little prayer.  I write a little blog.   Comforted by the knowledge gained from experience that in the morrow it will seem less daunting. 

Eggsa Tradition

Easter is such a glorious time of the year, isn’t it?  And the liturgical weeks following the big day allow us to continue the celebration albeit with a continued focus on the cross and what it ultimately means for Christians.

So I was excited to spend the holiday weekend with my family ‘up Maine.’   On Easter morning, after church, my mom and I made a batch of deviled eggs.  It’s the tradition every year to have them.  Many Easters I made them for myself when celebrating with my husband.   So we make a batch and start looking for THE egg plate.  The one that my mom remembers her mama using when she was a little girl.   We search everywhere. When it becomes apparent that this plate is truly missing, both of us search harder.  With increasing anxiety.  I run to my sister’s home next door to see if it was left there from last year.  But no.   We question each other as to where it could have been.  Was it given to another family member? No she insists.    Definitely not at my house I tell her.  The only conclusion reached is that when my mother was jettisoning some excess clutter a few years ago it must have accidentally been set atop a giveaway box when she cleaned off a shelf.  Noooooo!

And slowly we begin to mourn its loss.  I had never bought an egg plate for myself all these years.  I just assumed one day my mom would tire of hers and pass it onto me.  She never did.  She loved that plate and the memories of all those Easters.  It was unique because it was the size of a dinner plate but had spaces for a full dozen eggs or 24 deviled eggs.  In the center was a delicate painted arrangement of small pink roses.  So me.  So her.  So my grandmother.    And so unique I never saw another that tempted me its acquisition. 

Far be it from us to spoil Easter dinner with the family over a lost plate.  We muster our spirits of gratitude and head next door to my sister’s.  She has an old egg coloring plate that we use.   Mom and I share a look as we reach for a deviled egg each.  So not the same and we sigh.   We two may actually be the only ones in the family who love deviled eggs.  The only ones to mourn this latest loss.   Nothing unites two souls like shared grief.   As we know all too well.  By the end of the meal we are feeling better about it.  After all- what can be done now?

A week or two later I decide to do a search on eBay.  And, yes, indeed there are a couple of egg plates.  They only have the standard 12 slots for 6 eggs and the flowers in the center are mixed colors but each one does have a pink flower.  So both are ordered.  One for me and one for my mum.   

It may never be the same as my grandmother’s plate, but we can move forward and enjoy our deviled eggs again.   And these new plates will have a story to tell as well.  A story of mother and daughter united in a traditional plate of memory keeping.   A mother and daughter who have shared grief and then understood each other better for it. 

Fake it till ‘Ya Feel It

When I woke up this morning I could sense that I would have to force myself to get out of the house today.  Last evening was difficult because I was feeling a bit under the weather and missing my love.   My natural nestling instinct kicked in this morning and I so just wanted to stay home.  Curl up on that couch and ignore the world.   Then I recalled my promise that I would work on balance.   I needed to find positive things on the weekends to balance the weight of the workweek.   Sigh.

A recent conversation with my sister came to mind.  She told me that sometimes ‘ya just have to fake it till you feel like it.   This is one of those days I told myself.   I put on a cute top and chose coordinating earrings and headed to the garage with a newspaper clipping in tow.  I told myself that if it was really not fun I could just come home.  

It was chilly and drizzly so I had on my new fuchsia rain jacket.  That ought to perk me up I thought.   I put in the address for a seaside botanical garden that I hadn’t visited in nearly twenty years.  I still remember the garden party I attended at Fuller Gardens.  It is located about a block from the seawall with a walking path.  Today was their annual plant sale said the newspaper and I was looking for herbs. 

The rain stopped and it became quite humid there by the sea.  I found some really great looking plants and decided to become a member there.  This could be one of my new ‘happy places.’  A reason to get out of the house on random Saturday mornings.   In the gift shop I joined a couple ladies in their passionate discussion of the most recent Downton Abbey season.   Of course, I told them.  Garden lovers would enjoy that show!  We reminisced about season one with the tea and garden parties and all those hats.

As I left, I put in the address for a craft fair on the common in Hampton Falls, a neighboring town.  As I drove along the seawall, the sun came out and the sea was sparkling to my left.  I was suddenly hungry and there was the Beach Plum restaurant I ate at last year with my mom.  I pulled in and got a fresh haddock sandwich.  The beach facilities were open across the street.  I got there just before the huge lunch crowd arrived.

When I got to the craft fair I realized I would have to park a ways down the street.  Well I said to self – good exercise and fresh air all together.  The common was covered in newly mowed grass a lovely deep shade of green, soft and comfortable for strolling around the craft tents.  I found many things I liked but was there for the entertainment factor more than the shopping.    Chatted with a few artisans at their booths.  As I was leaving the common, I noticed a sign for a local farm and it was further down the street I was parked on.  Well, I can get home from there quite easily.  I’ll just drive a new road I said to self as I banged a u-turn mid road.  No traffic in either direction, trust me. 

At Applecrest Orchards I picked up some new red potatoes and green onions so I can make potato salad on Sunday.  I actually found a small jar of pickled eggs.  Too funny.  They were featured in a scene in a recent book group read about some Russians and the meal they ordered in a bar.  I had wanted to recreate it at home.   Maybe I will.   Well, except for the herring.  There are limits as to what I am willing to try.   I had a nice chat with the owners at the cashier stand.   I got something to drink in the refreshment shed and admired the rows of perennials they had for sale.  It was less humid and the breeze was lovely.  The sun’s strong rays made it feel warmer than the 67 degrees the thermometer indicated.

As I left I marveled at the circuit I had made in my junket.  It was only twenty miles in total and I didn’t get on the highway once.  Many of the roads I hadn’t driven before.  Lovely discoveries of small town commons, old trees and rock walls.   The entire outing took only three hours.  And somewhere along the way I didn’t have to fake it anymore. 

Irrepressible Hope

I just watched The Great Gatsby.  I remember reading the book in college.  Great film rendition.  About the carelessness of people.  The callous carelessness.  And the irrepressible hope of one man.  Clinging to his dream.  Not able to accept that the dream had already ended long ago.  The death scene got to me.  I sobbed during the credits thinking of my lost love.

And I am now left to ponder:  what do you do with your innate irrepressible hope once the dream is gone?  How do you harness it as you move forward?  How can it be redirected into a new dream?  And how long will it take before you are able to focus on a new dream?  Will you know it when you see it?  So many questions lodged in the simple words of an author in a novel written long ago. 

I look around.  I reflect upon my life and all I’ve done.  I’ve already accomplished so many of the things I wished to in the realm of education, career and travel.  I was blessed with a grand romance and abiding love in my husband.  I’ve had interesting adventures great and small.  I’ve enjoyed the companionship of family and friends.  I have loved and been well loved in return.   I have no regrets.   I have indulged in many creative pursuits over the years.  It is an interesting place to be, this stage of life.   I have many more years behind me than before me.   The future is a blank canvas.   Yet, I have no desire to rush to fill it.  Most unusual for me.   I am content to wait upon God.  I trust that the guidance will come when the time is right.  And that the small part my life plays in the gorgeous tapestry He is creating will be as it should.

As I journey forward, I shall have to be on the lookout.  Looking for clues.  Evaluating hints.  What will the new dreams be?  A person with irrepressible hope needs something to look forward to.  My last dream standing is early retirement.  I’m sure others will come to me in time.  But for today, I so understand how Gatsby could cling to his dream against all odds.  He instinctively understood the unbearable nature of the pain its loss would bring.

Living in a Post-Cancer World

I was watching the news recently.  It was just after that Malaysian flight went missing.  An analyst was talking about living in a post 9/11 world and how of course terrorism must be considered.  It got me thinking.   I’m living in a post-cancer world.  What does that mean?

Well, for me being a cancer survivor is still relatively new.  It’s only been 29 months since my breast cancer diagnosis.  I was fortunate that it was caught so early.  But my life and how I view it was irretrievably altered.   My situation was unusual.  It was greatly complicated by the fact that within months of completing the radiation treatments my husband was diagnosed with terminal cancer.   I was still adjusting to my own diagnosis but had to set that aside to be there for him.   And of course I’ve been dealing with the grief of losing him for the past 15 months. 

Yet somehow I keep moving forward.  One tiny step at a time.  Sometimes with guilt.  Sometimes with grief.   I think the cruelest thing of all is when a cancer patient has to watch a loved one die of cancer.  I lost my medical innocence.  I now know only too well that all those blood tests they run at the cancer center may not tell the whole story.  My husband continued to have really good blood test results for months after his diagnosis.  There are days when I wish they would just do a full body CT scan and rule out any and all kinds of cancer.  But of course a CT scan contains so much radiation that they would never do them routinely.   It’s reserved for when they are fairly certain there is a new problem.  

In my case, I have to be aware of certain risks associated with Tamoxifen.   Annual eye exams to rule out any crystals forming near the retina, watch out for early symptoms of uterine cancer.  And of course the standard areas of concern for breast cancer recurrence are lungs, brain or bones.  Fun to contemplate, isn’t it?  Trust me- it’s best not to think of it at all.  Of course there are times when you must.  

During the holidays I had to have a biopsy to rule out uterine cancer after having some unusual symptoms.  It came back normal.  I was told to just self monitor and let them know if I need more tests.  I recently began having ocular migraines.  I had them years ago so it isn’t that unusual for me.  But now that I am a cancer survivor, the ophthalmologist had to do her job. She explained that while there are no signs of metastasis, if the headaches continue I should call her.  She’s willing to schedule a MRI to rule anything out.   I cried that night.  She doesn’t really believe there is a problem.  Nor do I.  But she made me think about the possibility.    

So, in this post-cancer world, I try not to dwell on what could be.  I keep my old mantra from when I was first diagnosed firmly in mind:  ‘Any one of us could step off a curb and be hit by a bus on any given day.’  Life is uncertain.  Cancer, or an illness far worse, could happen to anyone.  At any time.  

The best advice I could offer a fellow cancer survivor is not to dwell on what could go wrong.  You'll think about it sometimes.  Just don't dwell.  Find the joy that you can each day.  Savor the good moments.  Live in love.  Take the time to notice those sunrises and sunsets. Admire all the flowers.  Spend some quiet time with God.  Join in with the silly laughter of a small child.   Listen to the ocean waves.   Let the sun soak in on a warm spring day.  Bring home a bunch of those supermarket daffodils.  Connect with friends and family.   Read interesting books.  Catch the latest movie you heard was so good.  And above all else, be gentle with yourself.   You are still moving forward bravely, even if it doesn't always feel like it. 

Dawn’s Early Light

I awaken before I need to rise.  Squinting at the bedside clock.  The clock that is so high-tech I find it difficult to operate.  My husband’s clock.  I can go back to sleep for another 45 minutes or just get up.  Tossing back the covers.  The decision’s made.

Gosh, it’s dark out.   I put on the lights and dress in my exercise clothes.  Fumbling with the remote to start the exercise dvd.  Realization slowly settles in.  This is not the remote for the dvd player.   I dutifully start the routine.  Just listen to the directions and keep moving.  Before I realize it the half hour is done.  Still a bit bleary-eyed, I head to the kitchen.

The silence of my home is deafening.  Water boiling away in the electric kettle seems unusually loud.   Email is quickly scanned while waiting for the tea to steep.  Morning prayer time and bible reading is engrossing.  The last half of cup grows cool.

That kettle again makes its loud boiling noises as I contemplate the beauty of the early morning light.  The subtle light before the sun comes up over the horizon.  The sudden piercing rays through the window once the sun appears.  Holding the warm mug of tea in my hands as I stand at the window.  The steam wafts up to my face as I slowly sip.  Aaaah, ‘Nectar of the Gods’.  That’s what I would answer every time my husband asked why I drank so much tea. 

I contemplate my day.  Work looms large in my mind.  A colleague asked how I was doing yesterday.  We hadn’t spoken in months.  And he really cared to hear my response.  We were working together when I was diagnosed with cancer.  His daughter had cancer as a teen so he could relate a bit.  He was very kind during my husband’s illness and as I dealt with his death.  Our work together is done and our paths will not likely cross again. 

I think perhaps he is one of the rare people God has placed in my path to help me on my journey.  Here for a fleeting time to bring some bit of kindness.   A blessing.  The beauty of that rising sun and the risen Son join together in a moment of peace.   I smile softly as I realize that tossing back those covers was a good decision today.

My Father’s Voice

When I was young, the voice in my head was my father’s.  You know what I mean – that voice telling you to handle this situation a bit differently.  Such as:  ‘make more than one trip’ as I walked by with arms over laden- ‘you’ll drop something or fall on the stairs’.  Or the driving comments- he taught me to drive, you see.  Such gems as ‘don’t follow so close’ or ‘yes, you have the right away but that guy wasn’t looking.  Would you rather be right? or dead?’  I admit that to this day, every time I take a huge armful of something and carry it anywhere, I think of my dad. 

My dad was an advice-filled man and as reluctant as I was to listen to him, inevitably he was right.  How annoying is that, right?  But I’m showing you my stubborn side now.  Later in life my dad found it highly amusing that I fell in love with another advice-filled man who was inevitably right.   Robert was known to exclaim ‘stop typing so fast- no wonder your hand hurts’ or ‘be careful with that knife- I don’t want to take you to the ER if you cut yourself’ or, my favorite, ‘why are you carrying all that laundry in one trip?  Put it down.  I’ll take it upstairs.’   See, I really do have a stubborn side.  And for the record, I never cut myself while slicing veggies other than a one-time very small nick.  But, now I hear his voice too, every time I pull out that paring knife and cutting board.  And I think – gosh, now I’d have to get myself to the ER.  I better be careful.  And I picture him in heaven, smiling at me. 

As you may have surmised, today is the anniversary of my father’s passing.  Thirteen years ago he died on the 13^th of March.  The date is not without some family significance.  My parents were married on a Friday the 13^th and nearly two years later I was born on a Friday the 13^th.  My dad always said that day was ‘our’ lucky day – him, mom and me.  In recent years I have begun to wonder how true that is, but I like to cling to my dad’s belief.   As he was nearing death, he lingered in a coma and passed just a few minutes past midnight on the 13^th.   Coincidence?  I think not.  

I remember that week- in the midst of my grief  - just knowing that I would spend the rest of my life and never again would the phone ring and be him.  If I was having a bad week, at random the phone would ring and I would hear Dad’s voice saying ‘I’ve been thinking about you.  Are you okay?’  Or back in the 80s when the Bell Phone system was in place and they had frequent commercials with people saying ‘I just called to say I love you.’  Well, you guessed it.  My dad used to do that too.   Or the times he would tell his funny stories- with some facts created out of the blue with such skill that you couldn’t tell truth from fiction.  Consequently, Dad rarely met a stranger he wouldn’t engage in conversation.

And his utter pride the time I wanted shelves made for this tiny kitchen cupboard and he made them for me remotely.  I measured and told him the numbers over the phone.   ‘Yes, I checked them twice’, I said.  Then he cut out the wedges to hold the shelves and predrilled the holes for the screws.  He carefully used his saw and finishing tools to make the shelves.  He tossed it all into a box and mailed them to me.   I called him when it was being successfully put into place.  He was so proud of himself that it worked.  He had included a mini-level in that box so I could get the shelves mounted properly and he told me how to use it.  I still have that tool in my toolbox.  It was one of the few that got moved to the condo.

He loved to laugh and spend time together as a family.  And when we couldn’t visit – well, he picked up that phone to check in on his kids.  And at the end of those phone calls, then he would say, ‘Well, Karen Marie, I’m out of words.  I love you.  Goodbye.’  Right back at you, Dad. 

That Can of Soup

When we moved into this condo the movers we hired were young and strong, so I didn’t hesitate to toss everything into boxes for them to lug around.  I even packed all the food in the pantry.  My husband was still able to grocery shop at that point so some of the things I moved were items he had purchased.  Like this can of organic, low-sodium chicken noodle soup he bought for himself.  I’m sure it was expensive.  He didn’t worry about things like that when it came to food.   But that soup was placed in the new pantry and then forgotten.

As the months went by after he died, I would occasionally see that can and ‘see it without seeing it.’  At that stage, if it was going to cause pain – just avoid it. So it got placed in the back as I purchased other canned goods.   I found it this winter when I organized the pantry.   I put it near the front and there it has sat.   It’s funny the ability we have to ignore what we don’t want to see. 

So, the other day was really busy.  I didn’t have time for lunch and suddenly it was nearing 2:00pm.  And I was feeling queasy and light headed.  I needed something soothing and fast.  In that moment, I wasn’t thinking about my husband.  I was thinking chicken noodle soup would be perfect in the microwave.   As I was nearing the bottom of the bowl, the waves of grief hit me and I cried.  That was HIS soup.  And I ate it.   I cried a bit and then went back to work.  And as I did, I heard a song on the digital movie station that I had never heard played there before.  The song we danced to at our wedding for our first dance.  I smiled.  Perhaps he was saying hi.   To help me as I said ‘another goodbye.’ 

And I marvel still today at the ability we humans have to see only what we want to see.   On some level, I had to know that last can of soup he purchased for himself could only cause pain.   But I didn’t toss it in the trash.  I kept it.   I must have known that I needed to experience this moment.  This moment of goodbye contained in that can of soup.   It’s the knowing behind the knowing.

Hambone, Hambone

A couple weekends back I took a ham bone out of the freezer and placed it into the fridge.  I had picked up a bag of dried peas and was planning on making my family’s pea soup recipe.   But as the weekend went on, I just didn’t feel like it.   So, on Sunday afternoon, I pulled together the ingredients and made a ham broth / stock. 

That orange bowl is my cooking 'garbage bowl' in the style of Rachel Ray.  A few years ago I used to watch her cooking show on the Food Network.

I think a couple bay leaves are the secret ingredient in most soup bases.  I topped the ham bone with water and walked away.  I did use a lid.

I let it simmer for a couple of hours and then set it out to cool a bit while I pulled off the good bits of meat.  By the way, that meat makes the best ham salad sandwich that coincidentally was my reward for making the broth.  I don’t like to simmer the pot for five plus hours like some recipes call for because I like my broths to be a bit mild tasting. 

Steaming broth - still too hot for the fridge.

In case you haven't made broth before - you toss out all the ingredients in the pot except for pulled meat off the bones.  It's all there just to add flavor and nutrients to the broth.

Then I put the broth in the fridge and let it sit for a few days.  I skimmed off the fat so all in all it was fairly healthy looking.  I froze a few small cartons of it for later use.  And still that bag of peas was sitting on the counter by the bananas.  Sigh.  Just didn’t feel like making that soup.

Finally, I realized what was happening here.  I cooked a ham our last Christmas together.  And I had made a homemade pea soup the week after.  Robert loved my pea soup.  I always used the green peas like my grandmother did.  The last batch of my soup had come out great and he really enjoyed that dish of soup on that chilly afternoon.  In the months after he died, I had cartons of that soup in the freezer that I was moving around to make room for other things.  The memory is a bit fuzzy but I believe that I tossed them in the trash one day because I just couldn’t eat them. 

Aha!  So here I have ham broth still in the fridge.  And obviously I shall not be making pea soup.  Should I just toss it out?  Hmmm….I found a few wonderful ham and potato soup recipes online.  I made it on a Thursday evening so I had lots of homemade goodness to eat for the weekend.   I used some of the ham that is stashed in my freezer.  

I added one pat of butter to the olive oil while sautéing the onions.  It adds tons of flavor for relatively few added calories over a pot of soup.

With homemade broth - I chose to use about 3 cups broth to maximize the good flavor.    After veggies were tender, I  added one cup of skim milk with corn starch and let it simmer a few minutes to thicken the pot.  The fat free half and half and sour cream were just a touch at the end after warming the corn.  I used whatever corn was on hand but I plan on making this again when I have fresh, sweet New Hampshire corn in August.

Nirvana – it really was a great recipe.  Use the photos for your cooking pleasure.  Not a lot of  measurements – I always learned to just make it the way that looks best to me.   I had combined this process and ingredients from several online recipes.  And I dare you to try and keep the refrain from the song ‘hambone, hambone’ out of your mind.