A Little Slow on the Upbeat

Have been low key this week after chemo. An afternoon nap is essential, but even that doesn't prevent a 4 o'clock dip or that after-dinner laying my head on the table like a child overdue for bed.

Still, this weekend I gathered my Saturday energy and rode with Jeff down to Silver Falls State Park outside Salem, where a host of my writing buddies congregated at the annual conference of the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators. The head honcho had let them know of my surgery and challenging road ahead and some had read the blog. Everyone penned encouraging notes for me on the inside covers of a copy of Lorie Ries's picture book, The Punk Wig, about a mother going through chemo. It's a lovely book, very well done.

It was wonderful to see them all. Each hug was a blessing. Either I'll be back at Silver Falls for the full three days next year, or I won't...regardless, I'll carry the loving thoughts of my fellow scribes and artists with me.

While I was there, I spent a couple of hours critiquing and hearing my own work critiqued--a very important part of being a writer--. The next day I was fired up enough to dive into revisions on my picture book manuscript, When Big Bad Met Goldie Rocks.

Today I returned to my Qi Gong class, a gentle, centering exercise form that predates Tai Chi. I'm hoping to keep it up as I work my way through chemo. Getting out of the house to breathe fresh air and be around people with vitality is refreshing and keeps my attitude pointed in the right direction. Now, if I could just find a way to reignite my appetite.........

Diane

Loving Words from Las Vegas

I doubt my cousin Danny would consider himself a poet, but he has a poet's way of getting at the heart of things: "...........after reading the blog about you telling about your mom, I realize how much you are like her and your daughter like you. I think that is something to be proud of. Your daughter has a way with words and the entries are easy to flow with. I know what you are going through is tough and scary. What you said about being away from friends and family because you moved is somewhat true. What you don't know is how many people that know you like myself are praying for you and thinking of you. Di, being from Las Vegas my whole life I know a good bet when I see one and you lady are a good bet."

Last night Valarie asked me how I'm doing emotionally. A part of me is resting now. A part is secure in my outlook on life and death. And a part has a little weep now and then when loving words like Danny's reach me.

Diane

dancing matt for dancing mom

mom:

this guy quit his "real job" to travel the world doing a jig, because that's what he loved.

reminds me of you--both living the passion and the pure sense of joy.

http://www.wherethehellismatt.com/

watch the video in the middle of the screen. sound on.

love you,

ya daughta

chemo commences

update: mom started chemo this morning.

what it was like: she slept. says "i didn't get a chance to do much."

possible side effects: achy bones and nausea.

she's on steroids: really (makes the chemo drugs work better). says she "might be up till the wee hours getting emails out."

doc says: port will go back in, later.

valarie

weekend adventures

quick weekend update:

mom and i spent all saturday afternoon visiting bathroom remodel stores (saw some impressive sinks) as alex and i have plans to add a bathroom upstairs and redo the one downstairs at my little house in north portland. mom held her own the entire time, firing off questions to the salespeople and providing commentary and ideas all the way.

all three of us also made our way to a new (to us) mexican place, autentica, for some tacos al pastor and sopa azteca. very tasty. brought back pleasant memories of my time in Oaxaca--and mom's and my trek up through mexico when i moved back to Oregon.

where was dad? at the beach, taking a bit of time to himself. mom jokingly referred to our afternoon together as "mom-sitting". nah, mom, it's just us hanging out like normal.

valarie

JUST ROCKIN'

Just rockin' in my little boat out in the sea. It could be a lazy afternoon in early fall, except for the storm clouds of boredom gathering on the horizon. Boredom, the ultimate denial of living. I've even allowed myself to shed a few tears, as in bored to tears. Or maybe I was weeping over the loving cards from friends in today's mail, which remind me of a little story in two parts.

Part One: When I was growing up in rural western Montana money was often tight. Once a month Mom laid out the bills on the dining room table and wrote checks in full for only a few of them. The other creditors received a small payment to carry our accounts foward. Bill night was the one time our usually calm mother was snappish. Still, she made it clear that as long as we had our health, we'd be fine. Then, one day she lost her health. The last years of her life she was bedridden, unable even to hold a telephone. She bore her situation with grace, only rarely allowing herself to weep. We learned there was a corollary beyond health. We learned when health is gone, love remains, and love saw her through. Her love for us and ours for her.

Part Two: When Jeff and I left Salem, I told him it needed to be our last move. It takes us 3-5 years to really feel at home in a community. I didn't want to find myself in a hospital in a new place with no one to visit me. Guess what? I ended up in a hospital in a new place. But the fact was, I was too sick to greet anyone but family. The fact was, my friends from every place I've ever lived found me. That's you all. You let me know with flowers, loving words in cards and telephone calls that you were thinking of me. You've cleaned my house, cooked me dinners, made me a healing quilt, sent me a personal spa, offered to drive to Vancouver to take me to chemo treatments. New acquaintances in Vancouver have also come forward, assuring me there are good people waiting everywhere I go. End of story.

As for my little boat, rockin' like a cradle, I'm feeling like it's time to do some rowing. To gather the wool of my brain together and focus on small goals beyond eating protein and taking pills on time. Writing seems a world away right now, but my piano is not. Today I opened a music book I bought last Christmas when I had the piano tuned for the first time in years with the hope it would entice Valarie and Nathan and Jesse to play while they were home. I don't remember that they did, but I do remember that the book I bought, which had a passionate piece I'd longed to learn since college days, turned out to be far beyond my skill level. Nevermind. Today I turned to that piece-- Malaguena-- and vowed to master it, measure by measure. Today Malaguena. Tomorrow, the world.

Diane

Musing

I've always had this sense that what's meant to be will happen. In the past, this has provided some sense of relief...it's served as a little mental bumper that kicks in and says "Enough, stop pushing! Let things fall into place (or not into place)." Occasionaly, it's even made some of the struggles feel less personal and the disappointments less potent.

I gotta say, this cancer thing isn't one of them.

I don't mean that as a big, philosophical statement or emotional outburst. It's just that when we learned that the chemo port in mom's abdomen needed to be taken out, I was just...disgusted. Sometimes enough is enough, and "let things fall into place" seems very off in this particular situation.

So there. Blah.

Valarie