jennethink

RAINING IN BALTIMORE

I once heard that the place in your brain that houses memory is right next to the storehouse of smells.  Which explains why you can sniff something, anything, from years ago and have an immediate memory for it. 

I have these. 

Old Spice

AquaNet

Horseshit

But sometimes I feel I have greater ties to music and memory.  Smells will take me back, yes, but music … wow … music will catapult me into memories I didn't even know I had.  Some songs are storehouses for me of good and not so good memories.  Some tunes will trip me up the moment the first notes fly from the speakers. 

What's interesting is I hardly ever expect it.  More often than not, I will throw a cd in the player – a cd I've recently uncovered – and turn it on not expecting anything other than to hear the song.  I expect to hear it through my ears now … not to hear it "then".  Now.  I guess I expect Hear and Now.   I don't expect the tsunami of memories that comes along with a forgotten tune.  I'm blindsided ... er, deafsided.  I don't expect it, but out of the back of my brain, the memories come.

One such song is "Raining in Baltimore" by the Counting Crows.  It is on their August and Everything After CD which I'm pretty sure was their first CD.  I can remember seeing them perform on Saturday Night Live and the very next day, my friend Kristy stopped by Karma Records and spent way too much to buy the CD.  She then brought it to my house and we listened to it while we scraped old wallpaper off the walls in the dining room.  Now, normally upon buying a new CD, I would listen to just one or two songs that I knew over and over again but since we were scraping wallpaper and busy with our hands, we just let the whole CD play.  And as it played, we talked.  We talked about this.  We talked about that.  We talked about hiring someone else to scrape this blasted wallpaper.  And somewhere along the way, Raining in Baltimore came on.  And it played.  And despite our conversation and our scraping,  I heard it.

That's the not memory, by the way.

The song is just vocals and a lonely piano.  I have a soft spot for lonely piano as it does to my heart what a good dose of painkillers does to my brain.  Makes it all leery and weary and useless for the next 4 to 6 hours.   As with most times I first hear a song, I didn't catch all the lyrics.  I only caught some.  But I grabbed a hold of enough to know I'd be listening to this song again.  And again. 

And again.

This circus is falling down on its knees
The big top is crumbling down
Its raining in Baltimore fifty miles east
Where you should be, no one's around

Later, I sat by  myself and listened intently to the song.  I sat at my dining room table.  I sat alone.  The Man Who I Was Married To at the time was out of town and so I could sit for long periods  and do nothing.  I could drink a highball glass full of bourbon.  I could scratch poetry out onto a spiral notebook.  I could do all of these things.  And I did.  And as I did, I listened.

These train conversations are passing me by
And I don't have nothing to say
You get what you pay for
But I just had no intention of living this way

I need a phone call
I need a plane ride
I need a sunburn
I need a raincoat

Each line dripped.  Fell.  Worked on me.  I need a raincoat.  Every time that simple line was repeated (and it was repeated in the song many, many times) I felt something grow in me.  Like each repeat of this line was creating stalactites and stalagmites all around me making it both impossible to move and intolerable to stay.  I forced these growths inside me by playing the song over and over, hitting the repeat button on the stereo before the last line had completely faded. 

And I get no answers
And I don't get no change
Its raining in Baltimore, baby
But everything else is the same

It worked on me. Into me. Like a canyon being carved each phrase of that song slowly uncovered so much … the thing I was afraid of, the words I never spoke, the conversations I feared, the wall I was building, the woman I was becoming … the woman I'd never become.

I need a phone call
I need a raincoat

I really need a raincoat

I really, really need a raincoat

When The Man I Was Married To returned from his trip, I kept playing the song.  Not continuously but I played it often.  And when I did play it, I always repeated it.  This was especially true one night as I sat, again, at the dining room table.  With the music.  Without the bourbon and notebook.  I hit repeat on that song again and again.  And at one point after countless times through the song, he called loudly from the distant room he was in to ask me "Hey, can we buy that guy a raincoat so he'll stop singing about it?"  which is a hell of a line and funny to me now but then only further reinforced how much he didn't know me, understand me and how impossible it would be for him to ever navigate the topography of my heart.

That's the memory.

Sometimes people ask me how I knew it was time to leave my marriage.  Or, if daring, they'll ask me why I left.  Or they may even ask if something in particular caused me to leave.  I have a lot of answers for these questions and depending on who is asking, I choose the appropriate one. 

There's the fundamentalist answer

The friend who is considering leaving her own marriage answer

The friend who is considering getting married answer

The stranger I met on a train in Italy answer

And the answer given over guacamole and margaritas … I think we all know that one is the best!

The thing about answering that question, the "why did you divorce" question is that no matter what answer  you give, you are judged.  It's true.  And it's okay, I suppose.  It just is what it is.  And that's probably why I've worked so hard at answering the question in the past.  Why I've come up with different – all true – reasons for leaving the marriage … to tone down the judgment.  But lately, I have to tell you, I really don't care as much.    Lately, I care far less about protecting him and making myself look okay to you.  Lately it doesn't matter to me if people understand or get it.  So much so that I think the next time someone asks why I divorced I may just say …

Because I couldn't be married to a man who wouldn't at least ask, "hey babe, why are you playing that song so much?"

There's things I remember and things I forget
I miss you, I guess that I should
Three thousand five hundred miles away
But what would you change if you could?

THOUGHTS ABOUT THINKING

I'm working today on a keynote address I'm giving this Friday to a really cool group which I will tell you about after I've done it. I've known about this address for a least a month. I can't really say how long I've known because I don't remember and it would be way too much effort to go back and look but I'd say it is about a month. That's not a long amount of time. Most times when people hire me to speak at an event they do so months and months in advance. Not that this changes anything for me … I still wait until the last minute to put the talk together.

Unlike a lot of speakers I've encountered, I customize all of my addresses. I usually create something brand new for an event. Sure, I work from a bank of stories and themes but mostly what you see at an event is brand new stuff. Just born. Recently created. Just for you. I think this is important because each audience is different. And I believe the key to a good presentation is knowing your audience – inside, outside, front and back row … knowing them really really really well. The better you know them, the better your chances are at giving them what they want and need. Have you ever tried to buy a present for one of those secret santa things? One where you don't know who will get your gift, you only know how much money you are supposed to spend? Those are the freakin' hardest gifts to buy. There are just too many chances for that gift to go wrong. Giving a presentation without knowing the audience is just like that … it's like trying to purchase a gift for someone you don't know. And usually you know what happens, if you don't know the person, you end up giving them something that YOU want, like that darling little cup and saucer set with the Star Trek theme or a box of bubble gum cigars. Same thing happens in a presentation. If you don't know the audience, you end up telling them what YOU want to hear. There's a latin word I like which describes this phenomenon … sermocinare, … sermo – is the same root we get the word sermon from … and cinare obviously means "this has nothing to do with me".

Or maybe not. I never took latin.

No, the actual translation of sermocinare is "to talk to oneself" - and that, my friends, is death on a stage in the presentation world. Could there be anything worse than listening to someone sermocinareing all over themselves?

So I like to spend a lot of time getting to know my audience before I ever put together a presentation. What surprises me is how much time AFTER that I spend still NOT putting down anything on paper. What am I doing with this time? Got me. I think, in all honesty I'm just thinking. I'm thinking about it. Thinking about what I want to say … thinking about what the audience needs to hear … thinking about how to connect those two, sometimes opposite, goals … just thinking. The thing is, I'm not ACTIVELY thinking … I'm not sitting and going, hmmmm let's see … let me think about this… I'm just letting it brew, percolate in the back of my brain somewhere until BING … it pops out.

In that way, I guess I'm like a roast turkey. I need time to cook. I prep and plan and butter the skin but at some point, I have to put the presentation in the oven of my head and let it cook. And just like a turkey on thanksgiving, if I check in too often, I slow the process way, waaaaaay down.

So here I sit. Thinking about my talk on Friday.

But not really thinking about it. I'm trusting it's back there, cooking away.

It can't be rushed. Or I'll come off half-baked.

MINE, TOURS AND OURS

What do I think I am? 20?

Last night The Hub and I ventured out to see yet ANOTHER concert. Check yourself people … that's TWO … count them .. one, two concerts in less than a week's time. I just don't know what to do with myself.

BAH-NA-NAH!! (The White Stripes reference for Gilly)

This double shot of concert-ness is even more amazing considering what you already know … I don't really like concerts. Too many people, too little air, too much potential for me to get trapped in a space with a bunch of people with whom the only thing I have in common is a "WOO HOO LET'S GO TO A SHOW!" moment. I find it much more interesting to stay home and, say, watch re-runs of America's Next Top Model. But that's just me, crazy gal that I am. So normally, no, I wouldn't go to a concert. But last night's concert was special … in the meaningful way, not in the short bus way. Last night my dear, wonderful, quirky, hilarious, warm, outrageous, tender friend Matt was playing with one of the bands. Matt is a killer guitar player and singer and he rocks a faux-hawk like nobody's business. Matt is touring with Plain Jane Automobile who is opening for Ours which is another band quite beyond my ability to describe. They are crazy intense and a few of their songs hold pretty deep meaning for me.

And well, I just couldn't pass up the fates aligning in such a way that a favorite band was playing in my town and one of my favorite people was in their opening act. I might even skip a CURRENT SEASON FINALE of ANTM for that one.

Maybe.

As a special treat for me, Matt had asked Jimmy Gnecco (lead singer of Ours) to perform my much loved song of theirs, Red Colored Stars- which isn't normally on their set list for this tour. But they did it. They did it for Matt … who did it for me … because that's how Matt is. And as a double surprise, Matt sung with them and sounded just this side of heaven. And by this side, I mean the side I'm on … not the side you're headed for.

Ours was incredible. Jimmy Gnecco's vocals were spot on and as he screamed them pitch-perfect from the stage, they seemed to simply disappear into the music and into my skin. It was just one of those nights.

I'll open my eyes and a new day will come
I'll see red colored stars in the sky and in your eyes
Fast away the ugly, just one more bill to pay
All the past will be moon dust that flies, from where we lay
I can feel it, I can feel

Red colored stars in my hands were the stones that were cast
They left us scars, reminders

There's a wall in my way, there's a war in my way
Tales of love that consumed me
Hide from the light
I'm a slave in my head, I'm awake in my bed
Tell the worms they can soon eat tonight, eat tonight

I can feel red colored stars in my hands were the stones that were cast
They left us scars, reminders
Can you feel it?
Can you feel it?

Sleep. There's a wall in my way. There's a war in my way
Sleep. There's a wall in my way. There's a war in my head
Start our cars and be around
There's room enough for you and me
When the sun comes up, we'll leave them down and stare into the dream

I can feel red colored stars in my hands were the stones that were cast
They left us scars, reminders
I can feel it, I can feel it, I can feel it, I can feel it

Jenné and Matt

DIAGNOSES, DUATHLONS AND DIPSHITS – A THREE-FER

Today is the day we knew for sure I had cancer.   Wait… not TODAY today … I mean two years ago today.  Today is the anniversary of the diagnosis. It's a significant day. Much like a wedding or birthday .. only without the cake.  Come to think of it, we did have cake that day two years ago.  Because as the saying goes, "As long as there's cake, there's hope … and there's always cake."

For us, there was a short time between suspicion and diagnosis, which was a blessing.  Hodgkin's lymphoma can be notoriously slow in diagnosing as there are many other quite benign reasons for lymph nodes to enlarge.  However, I was blessed with a compassionate surgeon who knew I was concerned and worked me in after a kidney transplant. This was THE DAY AFTER I SAW HIM FOR THE FIRST TIME.  Incredible.  It was this warm-hearted, much-skilled surgeon who biopsied my giant lymph node and made the diagnosis in the surgery suite.  It was the same surgeon who had the incredible kindness to walk from that room, into the waiting room and tell The Hub the news face to face.  Most would have sent the results to my primary care physician and had him deliver the news. 

Today I got an email from The Hub.  It was titled, "2 Years".  I knew what the contents of the email would be.  I sat down to read it and 2 seconds later had to get up to get a Kleenex. 

 

…2 years ago I sat in a crowded waiting room, waiting too many hours for our surgeon to tell me the news of your biopsy.

It's cancer. I'm so sorry.

With those words, in that moment, he changed our lives completely.

It wasn't his fault, but you could tell he bore the burden of the news.

You left with a gauze on your neck the size of a small blanket and a Pickles-like innocence when you asked me with a smile "Did you talk to the doctor? What did he say?!"

I gripped the steering wheel and did my best to squirt the word "cancer" out with my tears.

 

Why'd you have to have cancer?

Why couldn't you have a cold, or another fatty lump?

Why did it have to be cancer?

Stinking cancer.

 

Half our life together has been cancer-related, and it will forever be "cancerous" whether we like it or not.

Can we ever relax again?

Should we?

 

I remember when you were to begin your treatment and you wanted to run away and deal with this thing on your own.

I didn't, and don't, blame you for that.

I'd want to do the same thing.

 

I blame cancer for some things, but not all:

For taking your hair

For taking away the Conger

For taking away your health

For making you sick

For making you tired

For making me worry

For making the future look less clear

For the loss of potential

 

I'm grateful to cancer for some things, but not all:

For bringing us closer

For going away so quickly

For showing me I had love for you I never knew I was capable of

For letting me be the husband to your wife

For showing me I can't do everything

For allowing me to care for you and let others take care of us

For showing me I can't fix everything…

 

"For showing me I can't fix everything."  There are many significant things in this email.  This line, perhaps, is the most significant. 

I am married to a man who, like most, wants to fix.  Anything.  Everything.  If there is a problem then there is a solution.   For The Hub the solution involves ice cream surprisingly often but there is always  a solution. 

About a month into treatment, a month into feeling like a cow pie baked in the hot sun;  a month into the taste of saline and the feeling of my skin crawling and the nausea and losing the lining of my mouth and feeling like it was never going to end;  A month into The Hub mixing up magical solutions for my mouth and removing any smells from the house that made me sick and trying to find cleaners without scent and going to every dime store in a 50 mile radius to buy any and every type of mint or gum with the hopes it would cover the taste of chemo that was constantly with me; a month into The Hub running here and there every time I even mentioned something sounded good to eat … lobster risotto?  I'll go get it.  Steamed artichoke?  I'll be right back.  Brownie mix … but not the Pillsbury kind the other kind and not the kind with the caramel?  I'm on my way; about a month into all of this I was sitting in my office when The Hub quietly entered and leaned against wall and said,

nothing.

His hands were behind his back and he was staring at the floor.  I waited.  Clearly there was something that needed to be said.  Clearly I would have to wait for it.  And so I did.  He bounced gently against the wall … rocked forward and back.  Took a breath.  Took another.  Finally looked up and said,

"I can't fix this."

And I said,  "No.  You can't."

It was the first time, since the night of the ER visit I saw him cry.  He's a quiet crier.  It's mostly just tears that chase each other down his cheeks.  And collect in the cotton of his shirt as they drop onto his collar. 

Helpless.

Hopeless.

Hub.

And I was powerless to do anything about it.

******

Last weekend was the Kansas City Corporate Challenge Duathlon.  Most people know about or have hear of Triathlons … the swim/bike/run event that is in many ways a true test of an athlete.  A duathlon is a very cool event that involves only deux of those– Biking and Running.  I suppose there are different lengths for these events, this particular event went like this:

A 2.4 mile run followed by a 13.5 mile bike followed by another 2.4 mile run.  Crazy.

Side note here … I would like to see yet another version of this multi-sport event … a Quadathlon of sorts.  With the fourth event being something completely random and crazy.  Like pogo-sticking or road work.  I think that would be the true test of an endurance athlete.  I'm just sayin'.

Anyway, the duathlon was last week and The Hub decided to participate.  He's never done anything like this before … any "multi-event event".  The event was Sunday.  We went out to the course Saturday to get some details and to settle his nerves a bit.   As we left there, he was very quiet.  It was obvious he had a lot of processing to do.  Over dinner I asked him some questions, the main one being:  What are your expectations for tomorrow? 

This began an enlightening conversation.  I could tell how tormented he was with this whole thing.  I knew he was putting all kinds of pressure on himself … to do it better, to peddle harder, to run faster, to not make a fool of himself, to make it worth it for me to get up at 4:30 a.m., to not waste a good pair of shoes, to not come in last, to not come in CLOSE to last, to not walk any of it, to … to … to ….

The list was endless.

I tried to help by saying, "Hey, just do what we tell The Kid … just do your best and have fun!  Can you do that?  Can you do your best and have fun???"

Oy.  Never had I realized the pressure even THIS statement puts on him.  Do my best means I have to DO MY BEST and if that's not bad enough … now I have to HAVE FUN … AT THE SAME TIME!

At one point we had a bit of a break  through when he said, "I guess I just think it's not worth it for me to go out there unless I'm going to do really well … like I begin to think, why even try if I can't do well?"

I can't tell you how this boggles my mind.  If I could even show you the list of reasons I have to participate in ANYTHING that have NOTHING to do with me "doing it well".  And I just didn't understand this whole line of talk.  Especially coming from the King of Encouragement.  "Wait a second!" I said, "How come every time I do something you are like the FIRST person to say …. 'Just back off a little, don't worry about it? You are doing great!'  How come when we are boxing or in spinning class or working out you say to me … 'That's awesome! You don't have to hit so hard or ride so fast … what you are doing is super!' …  How come you let me off the hook but never yourself?"

A long pause. A very long pause. When he answered, he didn't look up.

"Because," he said, "Because I WANT it to be hard for me … and I WANT to carry the burden."

I exhaled, almost afraid to ask the next question.  But it makes no sense to go halfway into the briar patch and not continue to push through.

"Why?"  I lowered my voice.  "Why does it have to be hard for you?  What are you trying to prove?  That you're worth it?  That you're strong enough?"

Nods … only nods.

"And if you're strong enough", I asked, "what happens?"

I'm used to waiting. I knew what the answer was anyway. Which was good, because I could barely hear him when he said,  "Then you don't get sick again."

"And if I do?"

"Then I can take it."

What could I say to that? What possible response is going to fix that?

*******

Last night The Hub and I went to a concert.  The band is an Icelandic band named Sigur Ros.  They are, in a word, amazing. With chocolate on top.

A handful of years ago, before I'd ever heard of them, The Hub asked me if I wanted to go see Sigur Ros in concert with him.  He pronounced the name correctly, "seh-ga roose".   I said, Do I want to see Cigar Blues?  He said, Sigur Ros. I said, Sugar Cubes?  He said, Do you want to go or not?  And I said, No.  I had a conflict.

A little while after that, he gave me their CD.  He also gave me a disclaimer … they are Icelandic.  They are different.  They sing in a made-up language.  And I'm all like, Okay, Whatever …

And then I listened to them. 

They ARE Icelandic

They ARE different

They DO sing in a made up language

What he forgot to tell me was that I would feel like my heart was being squeezed out my nose when I listened to them … in the good way I mean.  That I would want to join the Peace Corps.  That I would fill my house with flowers and fresh herbs just to watch them grow.  That listening to them would cause me to weep and laugh … at the same time.  That even though I couldn't understand the lyrics I would still KNOW WHAT THEY MEANT.  He forgot to tell me all of that.

So when my beloved "Sugar Cubes" came to town a two and a half years ago, we, of course, went to the concert.  I'm not a big fan of concerts.  I have, in fact, sworn off of them.  Mostly because I don't believe there is enough air in those places for all of us. And to be even more honest, I don't like the whole, "sing along with the band" routine and I get not a little angry when the lead singer of any group does the whole "hold the mic out to the audience and let them sing" trick because I'm sorry, isn't that YOUR job?  Why do I have to sing FOR YOU … aren't I paying you to do this???

See?  It's better if I don't go to concerts.

But to this one, we went. 

I tried to describe it to a friend of mine.  It's human nature, I guess, to want to associate something new to something you already know.  I started by saying, "I really can't describe it … it's like nothing you've ever seen!"  And then I went on to tell him a little bit about them saying they are Icelandic and elfish and they use really cool instruments … and he said:

So it's like a Trans-Siberian Orchestra type thing.

And I said, No … not at all.  And then I went on to say the lead singer guy plays his guitar with a bow from a violin and he said:

Oh,  like Jimmy Page.

And I said, No … not at all like that.  Then went on to say that they have multi-media type stuff going on like images flashing up behind them and sometimes you can tell what the image is and sometimes you can't and he said:

Like a psychedelic 60s type thing.

And I said … NO!  I ALREADY SAID IT ISN'T LIKE ANYTHING YOU'VE EVER SEEN AND YOU KEEP TRYING TO MAKE IT LIKE SOMETHNG YOU'VE SEEN BUT IT ISN'T!

Long pause …

So, like Blue Man Group?

2.5 years ago and last night, this indescribable band took the stage at a smallish venue in our hometown.  It is a perfect setting for them.  They just seem to fit there.  The venue has standing room (in the front of the house) as well as seats (toward the back and in the balcony).  This makes it ideal because it serves both those that want to stand and those, like myself, who want to sit and absorb what's occurring without having 600 peeps bumping into you on all sides.    2 years ago their warm up act was a group of fairies in lace dresses who played violins and sang.  They were sweet and tiny and Elvin.  They barely spoke English and at one point they messed up so they stopped to let their leader lean into the mic and say,

Tee hee. We sorry. We mistake.  We start again.  Tee hee.

It was beyond sweet and I thought the most darling thing I would ever see on stage.  Until last night when the opening act was a member of the band (he plays trombone … yes, trombone) who the fellas (his word, not mine) gave the opportunity to sing, play and start the show.  He played a little bit of trombone and then introduced himself.  Then he played guitar and sang.  He sang in English.  He lilted, really, I don't know if I can call it singing.  Only because it was so much better than singing.  After each song he would push his floppy hair to the side and say softly, 

Tank you.

And smile smile smile.

At one point, after telling us we were going to have, he thought, a lovely evening, he hoped, and he was grateful, so much, for the fellas allowing him this opportunity, he actually said, "I want to try hard for you and I am little bit nervous." Then he smiled again, so sweetly, and I thought I would die.  I turned to The Hub and said,

It's like watching a puppy!

And it was right about this time, when the joy of the whole thing was filling me up from the inside.  When I was delighting in watching this darling man and being in this darling place and taking it all in thrilled to simply be and see what was next when a dude with the tallest freaking hat I've ever seen came in and sat directly in front of me.

I know.  You think I'm exaggerating.  You think when I say he had a tall hat on, that I only mean he was wearing a cap.  And true, it wasn't chef's hat quality but it could give a chimney sweep a run for its money.  Yes, it was simply a trucker's cap but you must understand, I've never see a trucker's cap placed quite so high on the head.  Perched.  There is no other way to say it except that it was PERCHED on his head.  Sitting atop … not on … atop.  And what a head it was.  The head itself was quite tall even sans cap and the fact that it had a hat on made it freakishly tall.  At one point, he removed his hat and I thought, hooray … but it was only to reposition it FURTHER UP on his head.  It was so high, in fact, that I could actually watch the concert THROUGH the mesh netting on the hat.   Please understand … it was a tall hat.

And it sat right in front of me. 

I spun around and looked at The Hub.   I was stunned.  He was stunned.  The Chiquita banana lady with the headdress would have been stunned. 

By this time, the opening act was well into his fetch the ball! routine so I couldn't really say anything.  2 times The Hub tried to get me to change spots with him.  I wouldn't do it.  Once he actually said "I'd rather leave than have you sitting there behind that."  Still, I sat.  Directly behind and completely blocked by this cat in his hat.  I don't know.  I guess I was making a point.

Eventually, Sigur Ros took the stage and sent me into the bliss and joy that only they can.  And at the risk of trying to do what I know I cannot do and describe the experience let me just say this …

Imagine you owned a pet hamster.  And this hamster, which you adored, caught a bad case of malaria.  Imagine this hamster, your pride and joy, fevered and sweated for days on the brink of death.  Now imagine you awake early one morning to find him sitting quietly on your pillow and whispering to you describing in detail a dream he had.  And while you were laying there, listening to your pet hamster tell you of his malaria induced dream you suddenly realize you don't know what's more extraordinary, the dream he's describing or the fact, that …HOLY SHIT, I OWN A TALKING HAMSTER!

That feeling is Sigur Ros in concert.

It is auditory bliss and visual candy. If, that is, you can see it. Which I, of course, couldn't. Not unless I was able to magically lengthen my torso by 27 inches. What to do? Pout? Huff? I did the only thing I could.  I leaned ….. way ….. over ….. and looked around the hat. 

And inside I began to giggle. 

********

By the way, The Hub took first place in his division in the duathlon,

I'm cancer free,

And the Dipshit left after the third song  … taking his 10 gallon trucker cap with him and leaving me with an empty space in front of me just perfect for viewing.

Sometimes, if you can hold on, it all works out. 

ANNIVERSARY

I can't get past this day without recognizing it.

 

June 9, 2006. 2 years ago.

 

We had just gotten home from an adoption meeting. We were on a fast track to bring home our girl from China. We had identified her through a special needs program and would be traveling to get her as soon as we could complete our paperwork, get approval and get travel arrangements made - not a speedy process ... it would take about 5 to 7 months, but certainly fast in the grand scheme of things. We were excited. Nervous. Overwhelmed. The meeting helped. We learned big things about process and little things about transition and came home with our arms and hearts loaded to the brim.

 

We got home late. 10:00 I think. I stayed up and continued filling out paperwork. With each question answered I felt I was writing our daughter into our lives. She became more and more real with each written word. I kept her picture up on my computer and it glowed beside me as I wrote and wrote and wrote. As I wrote, I started feeling strange. Lightheaded. Like I couldn't get air.

 

I knew the knot was there. It'd been on my neck for weeks. I was concerned about it, of course, but because of the adoption, I just underwent a complete physical with blood work and x-rays. If anything was truly wrong, I told myself it would have shown up.

 

Of course the problem is I know too much. I knew, for example, soft tissue doesn't always show up on x-ray. I knew, for example, the knot in my neck wasn't a knot but a lymph node. I knew this particular lymph node - the left supraclavicular one - usually didn't enlarge unless there was a problem. A significant problem. I knew all these things.

 

But I also knew there was a 5 year old little girl in China with a heart condition that needed attention. I knew the agency had trouble placing her because her condition was so serious. And I knew she needed to be here. Here in the States. Here where she could be looked after. Here where she could get the surgery she needed and the family she deserved. I knew those medical reports often weren't accurate and so I called and faxed and worked to get experts from around the country to look at her files. And although they could come to no conclusions without seeing her, I had it on good authority she could be helped ... cured. And I knew what my heart felt when I gazed at her picture.

 

My gut told me something was wrong in my body.

 

My heart told me to ignore my gut.

 

Score 1 - 1 .... All tied up

 

That Friday night, after the adoption meeting, my supraclavicular lymph node got some of his buddies together in my neck and chest and threw in the deciding vote by constricting my oxygen and sending me to the ER. 72 hours later, I was diagnosed with cancer.

 

And my little girl slipped away.

 

The Hub and I endured five miscarriages prior to this loss. Five. The first and the last were the hardest ones. The first because it was the first. The last because it was ectopic and had to be ended. The ones in the middle weren't great either. But none of them ... not the first, not the last, not the three in the middle compared to losing that little girl - a gazillion miles away.

 

A few months into my treatment, we got word that she had been placed with another family. Part of the reason they were able to place her was the leg work we did in getting her files reviewed here in the states. Because of those hours on the phone and online and multiple conversations with heart surgeons who, honestly, aren't the chattiest of people, her file didn't seem as scary anymore. She was placed. She got what I prayed for - a forever family. It just wasn't us.

 

Of all the things cancer took from me, I'm still most pissed about this. Not that we lost her - because I truly feel we played a significant role in her life - but the fact that I wasn't able to grieve her loss. I was too busy struggling for my own life. At the time, I had to pour all my emotional energy into being well. Now I had to talk to my own experts. I had to send MY files around. I had to find surgeons who would treat me and give me MY game plan.

 

Ironically, I had a group email started in my drafts folder to family and friends to let them know about our upcoming addition to our family. I can distinctly remember erasing that content and replacing it with the story of my diagnosis.

 

Joy or sorrow - it all goes to the same "To" list.