jennethink

I WONDER IF THEY WORK ON AVOCADOS

Sometimes I like to pretend that when I haven’t posted for a few days it’s because I’m very important and just can’t spare the time to think.

Other times I convince myself that I’m doing something so exciting, so meaningful and life changing that I just can’t bother with making words.

The truth is, as each day goes by without posting, I find the expectations I place on myself become bigger and bigger until something really amazing has to happen before I can post. 

I’m back baby.

http://www.tatermitts.com/

They are mitts.  That peel taters.  Can you fathom it? 

JUST HOW LONG AFTER CHEMO CAN YOU CLAIM CHEMO BRAIN?

I’m beginning to forget the things I’ve posted about.  I’ve had this blog since 2004 and honestly sometimes I can’t recall if I’ve told a story or used an analogy or not.  Part of me thinks it’s no big deal to re-tell a story, I mean the chances of my readership being exactly the same as it was when I told the story in question the first time are pretty slim but another part of me worries that I’ll become that crazy aunt no one wants to come over for dinner because she always tells the same bullshit fairy tales over and over again.

The thing is I don’t really tell stories just to tell stories., have you noticed?  I sort of use my stories to make a point.  So maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to retell a story over again and use it for another point.  Then again, how good can one story be?  And I don’t want to start using just a few stories to illustrate every single point on earth. That’s like buying one of those multi-purpose tools off an infomercial.  It SOUNDS like a good idea to have one tool that can open a can AND wax your bikini line but in the end, where do you keep it?  And honestly, it makes me question the product’s credibility.  Blue Star Ointment, for example, claims it removes corns and calluses AND helps with jock itch.  I’ve never had jock itch – or a jock for that matter – but I can bet you, sucker, I’m not putting anything on my jock that can REMOVE corns.  That’s just me.

I guess what brought this whole thing up is I wanted to tell you the story of when I went to an Al-anon meeting years ago.  I was going to use this story to make a significant point.  It’s a good story.  Lots of details.  I can still remember so much about that first meeting including the initials that were embroidered on the hanky that an elderly gentleman in a blue dress shirt and yellow tie passed me when I began to cry.  Even though I only went a handful of times to those meetings, I could sketch out for you exactly what hallways to walk down to get to the meeting room.  I could tell you exactly how many tables were set up each week and what color the carpet was.  I can describe for you the taste of the hot chocolate that I would buy in the hospital cafeteria just prior to the meeting so I would be able to walk in a few minutes late look like I was late because of the line at the cafeteria and not because I didn’t want to spend one more moment with those people than I had to – which was actually the truth.  The details of those meetings are so deeply a part of my brain it’s like I’ve been branded with them.  They cannot be cut out, erased, colored over.  They go to my core.  And I was going to use this story to make a point.

The thing is after all that brain power I used to try to remember if I told the story or not …

I can’t remember what the point was.

I’m totally that Crazy Aunt.

HMM ... WONDER WHAT THEY'RE LOOKING FOR

WHERE THOU ART - THAT - IS HOME. -EMILY DICKINSON

My mom and dad did a fair amount of socializing when I was growing up.  Groups of people would sometimes come to the house and we would “entertain”.  We had friends we saw every other weekend during bowling league season.  And we had close friends that would have us over for dinner.  I loved family dinners.  I loved when we all get bundled up and head over to someone’s home to eat and play.  It was a treat.  New kids to play with.  New toys.  My sister and I would play effortlessly with their kids.  We’d all eat together and then the kids would get dismissed to the tv room.  The adults would continue to talk and laugh and sometimes play cards.  The kids would eventually fall asleep in a of pile blankets like a litter of warm puppies. 

Those memories are clear.

But I also have vague snippets of memories.  Like mis-spliced reels of tape in my head the images come in and out jumping sometimes from something clear and vivid to a new scene that is foggy and unfamiliar.  Only a frame or two at a time I can remember - being hauled up gently by my arms as my head lolled backwards.  I can remember my mother pushing my noodley arms through big puffy sleeves of my jacket.  I can remember being hoisted up into my father’s arms and carried to the car.  Half awake.  Half asleep.  We’d drive home and I could hear my parents talking.  Uninterested in what they said only lullibied by their familiar voices I’d drift in and out.  Occasionally waking with the misplaced confusion that comes from unfamiliar surroundings.  Realizing where I am.  Where I was.  And falling back into sleep with the full awareness we’d be home soon.

The cold night would niggle me awake. Like a monkey I’d climb up into my dad’s arms again.  Only half holding on.  Arms snaked around his neck.  Feet dangling and bouncing as he walked up the front step to the house.

I was never forced to brush my teeth or say prayers or any other normal nightly ritual on nights like this.  Together my father and mother would undress me as they giggled and talked about the evening.  Never addressing me.  Just talking comfortably with each other.  As adults. So rare to see your parents act like adults who love each other and not parents who occasionally interact.  Rare enough that I didn’t recognize it for what it was until years later. 

Then strong Daddy arms would ease me back into my pillow.  The covers would come up.  My worn, faded, yellow blanket would magically form around my head being tucked around me in just the right way so I could turn my face and nuzzle my cheek against the soft puddle of cotton. A kiss on the forehead.  And I was home.  Safe. 

One of the hardest things for me about chemo was the pulling away that would occur.  I would lose myself each treatment.  It was the war between the person and the body.  Everything good and right about me would be challenged.  I was physically exhausted, mentally fatigued and emotionally as used up and gunky as a rotten dishrag left too long in a sink of dirty water.  Early in treatment, this feeling would last a few days.  Early in treatment, in the 13 days that spanned chemo sessions, I would recover nearly completely.  I would find myself again.  I would drive down the road with my windows open, radio blasting, enjoying the moment, the opportunity to feel good, grateful even for the process.  Later in treatment, however … well, let’s just say the effects of chemo are cumulative and by the 5th or 6th treatment there was little to no recovery and I went into each new session less than I was at the last session.  Stripped of my defenses.  Stripped of my boundaries I went in naked and alone.  I would ball up protectively around myself trying to keep me near, to keep some shell of who I really am only to have her torn from me again and again.  And again. When treatment ended I was left holding a person who felt, acted, thought and looked nothing like me.  Nothing like me at all.  Foreign. 

Still, I played the part anyway.  The part of the gratefully recovered cancer patient. I faked it.  I eased back into my life.  I did all the things I’ve done before.  Did them as best I could.  Playing the role.  Acting the part.  This is how she would act, I would think.  This is what she would do.  I nearly took to wearing a WWJD bracelet with the J standing not for Jesus.  No, Jesus I had. Jenne, however, was long gone.  What WOULD Jenne do? I would ask myself.  Jenne, I guess, would do this.  Jenne, I suppose would say that.  For the first time in my life, it has been an effort to be me.  So I have been waiting.  Hoping.  Looking for my return.  Thinking one day I would awaken and find me here.  With all kinds of stories of long delays and travel interruptions I would apologize for taking so long but stress that I’m back now and all is okay. 

But I’ve yet to show up.

And just when I thought I would have to turn loose of The Girl I Was completely and learn to live with This New Person -I’ve realized that this, like most things, will be a process.  I’m reminded that good timber does not grow with ease.  I’m nudged out of self-pity and shown again that my life is what I make of it.  That The Me I’m Meant to Be isn’t so far away after all.  And a few things recently have shown me that although I’m not there yet.  I’m on my way.  I’m drifting in and out. I’m listening to familiar voices. I’m remembering where I am.  Where I was.  And where I’m going.

I’m headed home.

THE KID'S FIRST POST

My Sister Madelyn -

by Nena Fromm (reprinted with permission)

It all started when she was born.  She was the smallest baby I've ever seen, but she was so cute.  When she was in my mother's belly I kept telling my mom, "When will she come out? I can't wait."  Every day when I got home from school I would rub her belly and talk to it, too.  I couldn't wait for Madelyn to come out and see the world.  Now that she is out of the belly, she is so loud and cute.  Madelyn was 6lbs. 4oz. when she was first born!  It is so exciting to have someone new in your life.  Sometimes you've just got to get used to the feeling.  Here is something surprising to people and surprisingly, me.  My mom is letting me help change the diaper, but don't worry, I only do it once a week.  Ha ha ha ha ha!!  Let's get serious.  Sometimes when we have visitors I don't feel left out because occasionally someone brings me something, like the paper I'm writing on it came from my new notebook at my house.  Sometimes it will be a snack, or a toy, or something like that.  Let's get back to the point shall we??  It's not always about you.  You just have to get used to that.  My sister means a lot to me mostly because she's my first sibling.  I take care of her the best I can.  Sometimes it's hard to take care of a baby, but somehow the parents come to know more about them than they seem to.  It seems they are the ones who used to take care of us in the same way.  You should be happy you have a brother or sister.  If you don't it's ok.  I'm sure your friends take good care of you.  Some people get a lot of attention and others don't, but when you're a baby you need a lot, and I mean A LOT of attention.  Babies are nice and cute.  I hope my story has warmed your heart, but in life there's more to come, like taking care of yourself and others.  Thank you for listening to my story and paying attention!!

The end.

Nena

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!

Dear Maddy,

Today you will enter the world!  Your mom called just a little bit ago to say you were on your way.  Right now you are being squeezed, yanked, sloshed and pushed around.  Right now you are demanding all the attention in the room.  And you will get it, sweet child.

We’ve been praying and hoping for you for a long time.  Your mom and dad have wanted you for what seems like forever, but you took your time showing up.  You stubborn thing.  When you finally announced your arrival with a pink plus sign on a pee stick, the immediate world around you could not have been happier. 

Your sister is just dying to meet you.  She talks about you non-stop.  There isn’t a person she encounters that doesn’t know you’ve been on the way for the last handful of months.  She’s so eager to be a big sister and to help out and she will be magnificent.  And you will adore her.  I know, because I have a big sister and I know how great they can be.  I look at your sister and I think how very, very blessed you are.  She will be your protector, your provider, your confidant and your jester.  She’s a funny kid and it’s going to be wonderful for you to have her to learn from.

Your mom and dad are incredible people.  You’ll know it right away, I’m sure and you’ll feel how much they love you but there are a few things you won’t realize until much later about your parents.  You probably don’t know, for example, that your dad is a FABULOUS cook.  He’s a chef, actually, and he makes the best pork roll in the world.  Not that pork roll is hard to make but man is it yummy when he makes it.  And it isn’t just that he can cook, it’s that he shows himself through his cooking.  He shows you how much he cares.  Once, a while ago, when I was staying at your mom and dad’s house, your dad made me breakfast.  It was at a time when I didn’t eat much – couldn’t eat much – but that was the best darn breakfast I’ve ever had.  It tasted good.  It looked wonderful and when your dad asked me if I wanted more I could see in his face how much he cared.  He might as well have spelled out in scrambled eggs, “I wish I could do more but I can do this.”

And your mom is terrific.  She’s calm under pressure and a great friend.  She’s compassionate and caring and she is so thrilled you’re around.  One of the things I’ve always respected and loved about your mom is her unbelievable ability to share. She’s shared so much with me…including her daughter, your sister.  She’s allowed me to take a role in her daughter’s life that rightfully, I shouldn’t have.  She’s allowed me the joys of motherhood.  She’s allowed me to co-parent and that ranks right up there with the most unselfish thing anyone has ever done for me.

Which brings me to you.  A few month ago your sister, her dad and I were all sitting at dinner talking about you.  We were each saying what we were most excited about.  I said, “I’m just so excited that we’re having a baby!” and that’s when your very smart sister said, “Um, Jenne, I have a question.  I’m connected to Daddy, Daddy’s connected to you.  I’m connected to Mommy.  Mommy’s connected to Tommy.  Mommy and Tommy are connected to the baby.  But how are you and Daddy connected to the baby???”

Hmmm.  Good question. 

It’s true.  You don’t really belong to us in any way shape or form.  You are the daughter of my husband’s ex-wife and her current husband.  You, technically, are The Kid’s half-sister.  You, technically, have no ties to us at all.  But since when do we, in this family, do anything by the book?

Since we first knew you were to arrive on the scene, we’ve been waiting eagerly for you.  We’ve teased and joked with your mom about how much fun it will be to have custody of you for the summers and holidays just like your sister and your mom has teased back, “Don’t joke!,” she says, “I’ll do it!”  Before we knew you were a she, we guessed and pondered and planned.  And when your mom called us early on to tell us some scary news, when we thought you weren’t going to arrive at all after all, it hit us like a mac truck.  I was in the Michigan airport when I got the news and I had to stop and sit for a while.  Did you know the Michigan airport has a chapel?  I didn't either but I was grateful for it that day.  That day when I held my head in my hands and cried. 

But you surprised us!  And although you’ll enter this world with some unique challenges, I know you’ll be okay.  I’m not worried about you at all.  Not with everything you have going for you.  There are babies who enter this world without one ounce of love or compassion.  There are babies who enter into the love of a few - a mom and a dad, if they are lucky.  Maybe even a grandparent or two.  Then there is you.

Oh Maddy, show yourself.  There are so many waiting.

Love,
Just Jenne

SUNNY DAYS CHASING THE CLOUDS AWAY ...

It’s 80 degrees in Missouri today.

Not really – but it might as well be.  The weather outside is the most amazingly perfect weather we’ve had in a while.  The sun is shining and the temps have warmed up.  I have the back door open and as I’ve been working on the cabinets in the kitchen today I’ve moved the chop saw out to the porch so all the dust will shoot out into the yard and not out into my sofa.  There are no insects around – at least none that are trying to get in the house so I’ve left the front door standing open as I’ve walked back and forth from the kitchen to the porch 187 times.  Every time I hit the outside I expect cold air to greet me.  It doesn’t.  Instead I’m plunged into nothing more than warm breezes.  It’s delightful.  Like expecting the crappy pink nougat filled chocolate in the Russel Stover’s box and actually getting the caramel one. 

A couple of days ago I expressed to The Hub that perhaps I was depressed.  Not in the clinical sense, but just that I was run down, tired, sort of out of steam.  He made the observation at the time that winter is not my season which, I have to be honest, I sort of scoffed at.  Whatever. 

Today I realize how much I thrive on sunshine.  How different the world, my world, looks when it doesn’t get dark at 3:00 in the afternoon.  It hit me again how lovely it is to be outside, breathe air without your nostrils freezing together, and expose your skin to the elements without worrying your nose will turn black and fall off.  The Hub is right, winter is not my season.

Still, Mom, I’m not moving to Florida.