Happier New Year

The first few weeks of 2018 were painful. Friends and family lost family and friends. I have attended twice as many funerals this year already than I did last year.

It is time to turn this year around.

I attended a meeting with the Hearing Loss Association just yesterday and the speaker, Melanie Cool (can I tell you how much I love her name?) talked about the importance of three concepts that will help you find your way to happy. Which I didn't write down, so, with my horrible memory, I had to search on line to find the 3. 1. Gratitude (duh) 2. Zest for life. (yes!) and #3 being "Hope."

She also talked about how to reframe “I can’t” into “I can.”

So I got lost in my thoughts about one thing I can’t do.

I can’t go to one more funeral this year. Ok, so I don't WANT to, if I HAVE to, I will. Because I know I can’t personally keep that from happening. I’m not in charge of that part of the universe. What I CAN do, is tell people who are still here how much they mean to me. Of course, if you are reading this, you ARE one of those who means much to me. Even if I don’t “know you” personally, you are taking time to read this now, so I at the very least, appreciate you giving me a minute.

It takes seven repeats of something to make it a habit. (or is it three? Or a month?) Whatever, for the next seven days, every day, I will be writing to friends and family, with whatever sentiment I want/need to tell them before it's "too late." I hope I get to your personal note before it's too late.

February 10, 2015

February 10, 2015

I know, me…me…me…..today is the five year anniversary that Norman and I parted ways.

This past summer, on June 10, 2014, I celebrated the 5 year anniversary of my diagnosis, the day I was first introduced to my acoustic neuroma.  Norman.  That moment is a perfect memory.  It was as if my world froze in its place, and I felt like I was drowning in quicksand.  Since then, life has been a whirlwind.  From diagnosis to surgery was 8 months.  (Interestingly—or ironically—I only knew Ken for 8 months before we were engaged.)  I guess I prefer fast paced life!

Today, I’m celebrating February 10, 2010.   

At the beginning of 2015, when I started thinking about this date, I was 30lbs heavier than the day I was wheeled into surgery, thanks to my aging metabolism.  At the beginning of the year, I committed to doing some sort of cardio at least 30 minutes every day and I’ve been pretty honest about doing that! (Now I’m only 10 lbs heavier….I’ll take that small success….)  

So many amazing things have happened in the past five years….high school and college graduations.   The Army.  A book.  A new career.  Chicago. Hawaii.  Elections.  Board work.  A heart attack (Ken’s, not mine.)  Anniversaries.  Bat Mitzvahs. Weddings.  New babies.  Videos.  Theatre productions.  Music recitals.  Too many funerals. I joined the board of the ANA a year ago.

I’m feeling great.  I have my two year follow up scheduled for March 12. 

On April 10 of this year, I’ll be getting on a plane headed to Shanghai, where I will be representing the ANA at the 7th Annual Acoustic Neuroma Conference. Every month since my surgery, I connect with at least one newly diagnosed AN patient.  Every month, I get to pay it forward.  This is what I believe.…It could be worse.  It’s not cancer.  Someone I love might get sick.  And die.  Or just surprise me and die. (see above)

I’m grateful to you for reading this and sticking with me. 

I’m still here. And I really appreciate you for being here too.

They are calling our row

I lost yet another friend this week. To cancer.

Her name is Beth. She was a massage therapist in her career. But she was more than that. A sister. A daughter. An aunt, a cousin. She was everyone's friend, and she fed stray kittens.

Our relationship was short, about five years.

After I was diagnosed with my brain tumor, she contacted me.

"I hear you are looking for people to walk with you. I'll walk with you."

Honestly, when she first contacted me, I could not even see her face in my head. Our paths had crossed briefly and intermittently when Ken and I were attending the Bellingham Unitarian Fellowship.

But there she was.

So we went for a walk. And then we went for another one. And then, after a while, she offered to gift me a massage. Ten days before I had my surgery, we both imagined Norman shrinking from the size and consistency of a walnut, to the size of an almond.

After my surgery, I rarely saw her. She was not part of the regular group that visited me.

A few years after my surgery, I found myself with an extra ticket to the Motherlode concert at WWU. I put it out on Facebook that I had an extra ticket, and we got to sit together. I think that was probably the last time I communicated with her until after Ken's heart attack.

I only heard she was sick right after he got out of the hospital, and she was VERY sick by that time. And she had been sick for a while. Cancer. Stage 4. Just a little time left.

I never knew a thing about it.

I saw her three times after the day I found out she was sick. Once, I brought a sandwich to her at her house. She tried to pay for it. I told her, “next time, you pay.”

I called her to make plans again. Sadly, things had progressed very quickly, and four weeks after that sandwich, she was on her way to Hospice.

I entered her room, there was quiet singing. I walked up to her bed, took her hand, got close to her and said, “I brought you a sandwich, it's your turn to pay.” Her eyes opened wide, and when she saw me, she smiled. Her lungs were so filled with fluid, she hardly had any breath to talk. I had time to kiss her hand, say thank you and goodbye.